\i  the  Gate 
of  Samaria 


AT  THE  GATE 
OF  SAMARIA 


mat.  or  cAur.  UHKAM*,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS  OF 
WILLIAM  J.    LOCKE 

IDOLS 

SEPTIMUS 

DERELICTS 

THE  USURPER 

WHERE  LOVE  IS 

THE  WHITE  DOVE 

SIMON  THE  JESTER 

A  STUDY  IN  SHADOWS 

A  CHRISTMAS  MYSTERY 

THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA 

THE  GLORY  OF  CLEMENTINA 

THE  MORALS  OF  MARCUS  ORDEYNE 

THE  DEMAGOGUE  AND  LADY  PHAYRE 


AT  THE  GATE 
OF  SAMARIA 


BY 
W.  J.  LOCKE 


NEW  YORK:   JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:   JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMX 


Copyright  1894 
By  D.  APPLETON  &  Co. 


Copyright  1907 
By  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


TO  ONE  WHOSE  WORK  IT  IS  AS  MUCH  AS  MINE 
I  INSCRIBE  THIS  BOOK. 


2130990 


v-' H*JK~S  ,H-C--«L 

<T 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  a  severe  room,  scrupulously  neat.  Along  one 
side  ran  a  bookcase,  with  beaded  glass  doors,  contain- 
ing, as  one  might  see  by  peering  through  the  spaces, 
the  collected,  unread  literature  of  two  stern  generations. 
A  few  old  prints,  placed  in  bad  lights,  hung  on  the  walls. 
In  the  centre  of  the  room  was  a  leather-covered  library 
table,  with  writing  materials  arranged  in  painful  pre- 
cision. A  couch  was  lined  along  one  wall,  in  the  draught 
of  the  door.  On  either  side  of  the  fireplace  were  ranged 
two  stiff  leather  armchairs. 

In  one  of  these  chairs  sat  an  old  man,  in  the  other  a 
faded  woman  just  verging  upon  middle  age.  The  old 
man  was  looking  at  a  picture  which  he  supported  on  his 
knees — a  narrow,  oblong  strip  of  canvas  nailed  on  to  a 
rough  wooden  frame.  The  woman  eyed  him  with  some 
interest,  as  if  awaiting  a  decision. 

They  were  father  and  daughter,  and  bore  a  strange 
family  resemblance  to  each  other.  Both  faces  were 
pale,  their  foreheads  high  and  narrow,  marked  by  faint 
horizontal  lines,  their  eyes  gray  and  cold,  their  upper 
lips  long  and  thin,  setting  tightly,  without  mobility,  upon 
the  lower.  The  only  essential  point  of  difference  was 
that  the  father's  chin  was  weakly  pointed,  the  daughter's 
squarer  and  harder.  Both  faces  gave  one  the  impres- 
sion of  negativeness,  joylessness,  seeming  to  lack  the 
power  of  strong  emotive  expression.  One  can  see  such, 
minus  the  refinement  of  gentle  birth  and  social  ameni- 
ties, in  the  pews  of  obscure  dissenting  chapels,  testifying 
that  they  have  been  led  thither  not  by  strong  convic- 
tions, but  by  the  force  of  mild  circumstance. 

Indeed,  as  is  the  case  with  hundreds  of  our   upper 


2  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

middle-class  families,  the  Davenants  had  descended  from 
a  fierce  old  Puritan  stock,  and  though  the  reality  of 
their  Puritanism  had  gradually  lost  itself  in  the  current 
of  more  respectable  orthodoxy,  its  shadow  hung  over 
them  still.  The  vigorous  enthusiasm  that  spurred  the 
Puritan  on  to  lofty  action  was  gone  ;  the  vague  dread 
of  sin  that  kept  him  in  moral  and  mental  inactivity  alone 
remained.  Perhaps  it  is  this  survival  amongst  us  of  the 
negative  element  of  Puritanism  that  produces  in  Eng- 
land the  curious  anomaly  of  education  without  enlight- 
enment. It  has  dulled  our  perception  of  life  as  an 
art,  whose  "great  incidents,"  as  Fielding  finely  says, 
"  are  no  more  to  be  considered  as  mere  accidents  than 
the  several  members  of  a  fine  statue  or  a  noble  poem." 
It  has  caused  us  to  live  in  a  perpetual  twilight  in  which 
the  possibilities  of  existence  loom  fantastic  and  indis- 
tinct. The  Davenants  were  gentlefolk,  holding  a  good 
position  in  the  small  country  town  of  Durdleham  ;  they 
visited  among  the  county  families,  and,  on  ordinary, 
conventional  grounds,  considered  themselves  to  belong 
to  the  cultured  classes.  They  were  the  curious  yet 
familiar  product  of  the  old-fashioned,  high-church  Tory- 
ism impregnated  with  the  Puritan  taint. 

The  light  was  fading  through  the  French  window 
behind  the  old  man's  chair.  He  laid  down  the  canvas 
on  his  lap  and  looked  in  a  puzzled  way  at  the  fire. 
Then  he  raised  it  nearer  to  his  eyes  for  further  exami- 
nation. 

"This  is  really  very  dreadful," he  said  at  last,  looking 
at  his  daughter. 

"  Something  will  have  to  be  done  soon,"  replied  the 
latter. 

"  It  is  so  horribly  vulgar,  Grace,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
"  look  at  that  boy's  nose — and  that  drunken  man — his 
face  is  a  nightmare  of  evil.  I  really  must  begin  to  talk 
seriously  to  Clytie." 

Mrs.  Blather  smiled  somewhat  pityingly.  Since  the 
earliest  days  of  her  long  widowhood  she  had  undertaken 
the  charge  of  her  father's  house  and  the  care  of  her  two 
younger  sisters,  Janet  and  Clytie.  Her  familiarity,  there- 
fore, with  the  seamy  side  of  Clytie's  nature  had  been  of 
long  duration. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  3 

"  You  might  as  well  talk  to  that  fender,  papa,"  she 
said.  "  Clytie  has  got  it  into  her  head  that  she  is  going 
to  be  an  artist,  and  no  amount  of  talking  will  get 
it  out." 

"  It's  all  through  her  visiting  those  friends  of  hers, 
the  Farquharsons.  They  are  not  nice  people  for  her  to 
know.  I  shall  not  let  her  go  there  again." 

"  If  she  goes  on  like  this  there  is  no  knowing  what 
will  happen." 

"  Where  did  the  child  get  these  repulsive  and  ungirlish 
notions  from  ?  "  the  old  man  asked  querulously. 

The  conception  of  the  picture  was  not  that  of  a  young 
girl,  and  though  the  execution  was  crude  and  untrained, 
there  was  a  bold  cruelty  of  touch  that  saved  it  from  being 
amateurish.  The  canvas  was  divided  into  two  panels. 
On  the  one  was  painted  a  tiny  bully  of  a  boy  with  his 
arm  rounded  across  his  throat,  about  to  strike  a  weakly, 
poverty-stricken  little  girl.  They  were  children  of  the 
poorest  classes,  the  boy  realistically,  offensively  dirty — 
the /£//'/  morveux  in  its  absolute  sense.  Behind  them  was 
the  open  doorway  of  a  red-brick,  jerry-built  cottage, 
showing  a  strip  of  torn  and  dirty  matting  along  the  pas- 
sage that  lost  itself  in  the  gloom  beyond.  On  the  other 
panel  was  the  corner  of  a  public  house  in  a  low  slum, 
the  window  lights  and  a  gas-lamp  throwing  a  lurid  glare 
upon  wet  pavement  and  the  figures  of  a  woman  and  a 
drunken  man.  The  faces  were  those  of  the  children  in 
the  first  picture,  and  the  eternal  tragedy  was  repeating 
itself.  The  man's  face  was  loathsome  in  its  sodden 
ferocity  ;  the  woman,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  was  reel- 
ing from  the  blow.  The  evident  haste  in  which  the 
panels  had  been  painted,  the  glaring,  unsoftened  colour- 
ing, heightened  as  if  by  impressionist  design  the  coarse 
realism  of  the  effect.  Above  was  written  the  legend, 
"Lajoiede  vivre"  and  in  the  left-hand  bottom  corner, 
"  Clytie  Davenant  pinxit." 

"  She  has  certainly  grown  much  worse  of  late,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Blather,  holding  out  her  thin,  short  hand  to  shield 
her  face  from  the  fire. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments.     Mr.  Davenant 
ceased  nursing  the  picture  and  stood  it  on  the  floor. 
"  Have  you  quite  made  up  your  mind,  papa,"  said  Mrs. 


4  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Blather  at  length,  "  not  to  let  Clytie  go  to  the  Slade 
School  in  London  ?  " 

"  It  is  out  of  the  question,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"  I  don't  think  so,  papa.  It  would  perhaps  do  her 
good.  A  year  or  so's  hard  work  would  take  all  these 
silly  ideas  out  of  her." 

"  I  question  it,"  said  Mr.  Davenant.  "  They  are  not 
silly  ideas.  They  are  debased,  degraded  ideas." 

"  My  dear  papa,  they  are  only  fads.  All  young  girls 
have  them.  Look  how  crazy  Janet  was  to  join  the 
cookery  classes.  We  let  her  join,  and  now  she  hates  the 
sight  of  a  pie-dish.  With  Clytie  it  is  quite  the  same, 
only  she  wants  to  daub." 

"  Well,  let  her  daub  in  a  decent  way  at  home,"  replied 
the  old  man  testily. 

Mrs.  Blather  shrugged  her  lean  shoulders. 

"  We  have  tried  that  and  it  hasn't  succeeded,  appar- 
ently," she  said  drily.  "  You  seldom  come  in  her  way  ; 
you  don't  know  how  unpleasant  things  are  for  Janet  and 
myself.  What  do  you  think  she  had  the  impertinence  to 
tell  me  this  morning  ?  She  said  that  we  were  not  real 
people.  We  were  machines  or  abstractions  based,  I 
think  she  said,  on  a  formula,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
She  was  pining  to  live  amongst  living  human  beings. 
And  then  she  is  so  rude  to  visitors.  What  do  you  think 
she  said  to  the  vicar,  who  came,  at  Janet's  request,  to 
talk  to  her  about  her  shameful  neglect  of  her  religious 
duties  ?  She  said,  if  he  was  a  pillar  of  the  Church,  she 
saw  no  reason  why  she  should  be  a  seat-cushion." 

"Tut,  tut,"  said  the  old  man  angrily.  He  was  vicar's 
churchwarden,  and  a  power  in  the  parish. 

"  And  then,"  continued  Mrs.  Blather,  "  when  I 
scolded  her  for  her  rudeness,  she  said  that  if  she  had 
been  a  man  she  would  have  sworn  at  him  for  his  imper- 
tinence. Really  people  will  soon  be  afraid  of  coming  to 
the  house." 

"  They  will  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Davenant. 

Like  a  wise  woman,  Mrs.  Blather  did  not  press  her 
point.  She  knew  she  had  thoroughly  alarmed  her  father 
and  had  shown  him  but  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  His 
taking  it,  if  left  to  himself,  was  only  a  question  of  time. 
She  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant  to  come  and  light 


AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA.  5 

Mr.  Davenant's  gas,  and  then  she  left  him  to  his 
reflections. 

Mr.  Davenant  possessed  some  landed  property,  which 
he  had  occupied  his  HfA>in  mismanaging.  Fortunately 
for  him,  his  wife  had  brought  him  a  small  fortune  which 
sufficed  to  keep  up  a  position,  modest  when  com- 
pared with  that  of  the  Davenants  of  former  days,  but 
still  high  enough  to  satisfy  the  social  aspirations  of  his 
family.  He  had  lived  a  colourless  life,  severe  and  re- 
spectable. Even  his  university  days  had  passed  in  a 
dull  uniformity,  leaving  no  glamour  behind  them.  He 
had  walked  honourably  and  blindly  in  the  paths  his 
parents  had  indicated,  and,  now  that  he  was  nearing  the 
end  of  the  journey,  thanked  God  for  having  given  him 
the  grace  not  to  err  from  them.  He  had  married  when 
still  fairly  young,  and  he  had  loved  his  wife  in  a  gentle- 
manly, passionless  way.  She,  poor  thing,  had  filled  up 
so  small  a  space  in  life  that  she  had  faded  out  of  it 
almost  unnoticed — even  by  himself.  He  had  no  storms 
of  joy  or  sorrow  to  look  back  upon.  His  thoughts,  as  he 
brooded  over  the  fireside,  generally  wandered  back  to 
trifling  incidents :  ancient  municipal  interests,  the  mort- 
gages on  his  estate,  the  boundary  quarrels  with  the  old 
earl,  his  neighbour. 

But  lately  he  had  been  thinking  anxiously  over  his 
daughter  Clytie.  She  had  suddenly  developed  out  of  a 
naughty,  rebellious  child  into  a  problem.  He  assumed 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  bore  her  the  ordinary  well- 
regulated  parental  affection,  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
never  really  loved  her.  Until  lately  it  had  not  occurred 
to  him  to  think  of  her  as  anything  but  a  child  of  his 
with  a  singularly  unfortunate  disposition  which  time 
would  modify.  But  time,  on  the  contrary,  was  accentu- 
ating it,  and  he  realised  at  last  that  Clytie  had  a  distinct 
individuality.  His  philosophy  had  left  many  things  in 
heaven  and  earth  undreamed  of.  He  was  mystified, 
puzzled.  How  could  he  and  his  delicate  wife  have 
brought  this  bright-haired,  full-blooded,  impulsive  crea- 
ture into  existence  ?  Her  sisters  were  gentle,  quiet 
women,  possessing  the  virtues  inculcated  in  his  concep- 
tion of  life.  Clytie  seemed  to  possess  none  of  them. 
The  peasant  woman  in  the  legend  could  not  have  won- 


6  AT   THE   GATE  &<?  SAMARIA. 

dered  more  over  her  changeling.  How  could  a  daugh- 
ter of  his  and  a  sister  of  Janet's  scoff  at  sacred  things, 
defy  social  rules,  and  have  an  imagination  that  ran  riot 
in  scenes  of  drunkenness  and  outcast  life  ? 

Physiology  might  grant  a  solution  to  the  old  man's 
problem  in  the  law  of  the  alternation  of  heredity.  His 
father's  youngest  brother  had  been  a  family  black  sheep, 
and  being  the  only  one  of  the  generation  who  had  led 
an  eventful  career,  was  naturally  never  mentioned  by  his 
relations,  and  the  record  of  his  life  perished  with  him. 
But  it  is  possible  that  the  positive  enthusiastic  principle 
of  Clytie's  Puritan  descent,  reasserting  itself  once  in  every 
other  generation,  to  the  horror  of  the  negative  principle 
that  otherwise  ran  through  the  race  continuously,  came 
out  in  her  with  all  its  strength  and  vigour.  It  brought 
her  eager,  panting  up  to  the  brink  of  our  surging  nine- 
teenth century  life,  imperiously  bidding  her  plunge  in 
and  take  her  part  in  the  tumult. 

She  was  now  nineteen,  an  age  when  girls  try  to  realise 
themselves.  She  discovered  that  she  was  a  greater  prob- 
lem to  herself  than  to  her  sisters.  They  simply  looked 
upon  her  as  odd,  eccentric,  unpleasant  to  live  with,  and 
if  she  had  not  been  their  sister  would  have  almost  gathered 
up  their  skirts  around  them  as  they  passed  her  by.  But 
she  was  conscious  of  a  craving  within  her  that  did  not 
proceed  from  mere  wilful  caprice.  In  her  earlier  girl- 
hood she  had  thought  long  and  humbly  over  her  short- 
comings. Why  could  she  not  be  as  contented  and  dutiful 
as  Janet  ?  Why  could  not  the  interests  that  satisfied  her 
sisters'  life  satisfy  hers  ?  Often  and  often  an  impulse 
of  scorn  and  ridicule  at  the  littleness  of  Durdleham 
would  overmaster  her,  and  then  would  follow  a  passion- 
ate fit  of  remorse  and  repentance,  received  with  coldness 
and  ruffled  dignity  on  her  sisters'  part,  that  would  send 
her  back  humiliated  and  rebellious  to  her  room.  From 
what  springs  of  desire  did  all  this  proceed  ?  Whither 
were  these  impulses  tending  ? 

Ever  since  she  could  hold  a  pencil  she  had  been  able 
to  draw.  She  had  received  lessons  in  painting  later  on, 
and  had  covered  canvas  after  canvas  with  the  graceful 
futilities  the  Durdleham  art  teacher  suggested.  He  was 
a  landscape  painter,  and  Clytie  had  little  or  no  feeling 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  7 

for  landscape.  Bright  colour,  vivid  contrast,  sharp  tone, 
attracted  her,  but  the  quiet  grays  and  faint  blues  of  our 
English  scenery  came  out  dull  and  mechanical  when  she 
tried  to  paint  them.  At  last  she  gave  up  her  lessons  in 
despair,  much  to  the  wonderment  of  Janet,  who  improved 
greatly  under  instruction,  and  turned  out  neat,  compla- 
cent little  water-colours  which  she  sold  at  bazaars  or 
distributed  among  her  friends.  For  months  Clytie  never 
touched  a  brush.  Art  of  this  sort  revolted  her.  It  was 
soulless,  futile.  But  by  degrees,  as  the  breach  between 
herself  and  her  sisters  widened,  her  power  of  painting 
became  a  source  of  ineffable  consolation — a  means  of 
self-commune.  She  could  give  external  expression  to 
the  voices  that  haunted  her.  She  read  books  with  the 
eagerness  only  exhibited  by  the  young  girl  craving  for 
self-development  ;  and  the  pictures  they  vividly  im- 
pressed on  her  young  imaginative  brain  she  transferred 
to  paper  or  canvas — not  lovingly)  tenderly,  with  the  pure 
artistic  delight  of  gradual  creation,  but  hurriedly,  fever- 
ishly, longing  to  see  the  thing  done,  the  impression 
realised  in  a  way  in  which  she  could  understand  it. 
When  finished,  or  rather  as  soon  as  it  had  reached  an 
impressionist  stage  of  artistic  completeness,  she  would 
feast  her  heart  upon  it  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  throw 
it  away,  or  let  it  lie  about  in  a  corner  disregarded  and 
forgotten. 

Until  she  was  nearly  eighteen  Mrs.  Blather  had  scru- 
pulously supervised  her  reading,  and  Clytie,  chafing  with 
irritation,  had  been  compelled  either  to  submit  or  to 
smuggle  condemned  books  into  the  house  and  read 
them  surreptitiously.  But  at  last  her  angry  impatience 
at  the  impeccable  literature  that  satisfied  her  sisters' 
needs  burst  its  restraints,  and  resisted  vehemently  and 
finally  all  censorship  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Blather. 

It  was  not  wholesome,  this  solitary,  emotional,  imagina- 
tive life.  Her  health  showed  signs  of  giving  way.  They 
called  in  a  doctor,  who  prescribed  rest  and  a  change  of 
air.  One  of  her  aunts,  who  lived  in  London,  happened 
to  want  a  companion  for  a  tour  on  the  Continent, 
and  with  many  misgivings  undertook  to  take  Clytie  with 
her.  To  the  girl  the  trip  was  an  endless  succession  of 
delight.  Impressions  followed  each  other  too  fast  for 


8  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

her  to  realise  them.  The  superficial  features  of  conti- 
nental life,  familiar  and  commonplace  enough  to  the 
ordinary  traveller,  were  new  to  her.  Groups  at  street 
corners,  strangely  attired  soldiers,  odd  un-English-looking 
shops,  the  very  waiters  hurrying  along  through  the 
intricacies  of  cafe  tables  with  their  fantastically  laden 
trays,  all  excited  her,  filled  her  with  the  exhilaration  of 
life  and  movement.  Her  aunt,  who  had  hitherto  shared 
the  family  opinion  of  Clytie,  wondered  greatly  at  the 
transformation.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  this  was 
the  natural  Clytie  filling  her  heart  at  last  with  the 
emotions  it  had  hungered  for. 

It  was  during  this  time,  at  a  pension  in  Dresden,  that 
she  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Farquharsons.  Miss 
Davenant  discovered  that  they  and  herself  had  common 
acquaintances  in  London,  and  that  she  had  heard  of  Mr. 
Farquharson  as  an  archaeologist  of  some  repute. 

The  acquaintance  thus  formed  developed  quickly 
into  a  pleasant  intimacy  of  travel.  Mrs.  Farquharson,  a 
bright,  clever  woman  of  forty,  was  attracted  toward 
Clytie,  who,  for  her  part,  found  in  her  new  friend  a 
natural  sympathy  that  touched  her  heart.  So  far  did 
their  sudden  friendship  go,  that  before  they  parted 
Clytie  had  conditionally  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit 
the  archaeologist  and  his  wife  in  Harley  Street. 

When  Mr.  Davenant's  permission  was  asked  he  at 
first  demurred.  He  had  the  country-bred  man's  dis- 
trust of  strangers ;  but  when  his  sister  vouched  for  the 
social  position  of  the  Farquharsons  he  reluctantly  con- 
sented. Clytie  paid  her  promised  visit  the  following 
winter.  This  was  one  of  the  turning  points  of  her  life. 
For  the  first  time  she  found  herself  in  an  intellectual, 
artistic  society.  It  was  a  glimpse  of  another  world.  At 
Durdleham  young  men  seldom  came  to  the  house. 
When  they  did,  they  avoided  her  and  talked  platitudes 
to  her  sisters.  At  dinner  parties  the  men  remained  in 
the  dining-room  long  after  the  ladies  had  left.  They 
seemed  to  regard  them  as  somewhat  picturesque  but 
wearisome  household  adjuncts,  whose  absence  their 
masculine  intellects  unreservedly  welcomed  ;  conversa- 
tion with  their  partner  was  a  dinner  incident  to  be  got 
through,  like  shaving  or  putting  on  their  white  ties 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA,  9 

beforehand.  And  the  Durdleham  ladies  seemed  to  take 
this  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  were  equally  happy  to 
get  by  themselves  and  gossip  mildly. 

But  in  Harley  Street  Clytie  found  a  different  order  of 
things.  Men  and  women  seemed  to  have  interests  in 
common  and  to  discuss  them  on  a  basis  of  perfect 
equality.  She  found,  too,  women  speaking  authorita- 
tively on  certain  subjects  and  listened  to  with  deference 
by  men.  All,  young  and  old,  talked  to  her  as  if  she  were 
as  much  absorbed  in  life  as  themselves.  No  one  made 
her  rage  with  humiliation  by  tolerating  her  with  an  air 
of  languid  or  pompous  condescension.  Even  the  frivol- 
ities and  platitudes  of  everyday  conversation  were 
treated  in  a  way  new  to  her  experience.  The  talk  was 
keen,  incisive,  exaggerated.  Everyone  could  say  what 
he  wished  without  fear  of  springing  some  mine  of 
prejudice  or  prudery.  The  atmosphere  of  the  house 
breathed  freedom  of  thought  and  action.  She  beheld 
others  putting  into  form  her  own  vague  aspirations. 
She  saw  people  who  wrote,  painted,  acted,  living  fully 
and  intensely  every  day.  Even  the  professed  idlers 
whom  she  met  seemed  to  hold  their  fingers  on  the  throb 
of  life  around  them. 

In  the  streets — she  had  been  but  little  in  London 
before — she  saw  things  strange  and  fascinating — things 
she  had  read  about,  dreamed  of,  painted,  and  yet  not 
understood.  She  was  appalled  by  her  ignorance,  the 
narrow  gauge  of  her  sympathies.  What  did  all  this  rest- 
less life  in  the  great  city  mean,  its  wild  cries  and 
passions  that  struck  upon  her  tightly  strung  nerves  with 
a  deep,  mysterious  resonance  ? 

She  rilled  a  sketch-book  with  the  vivid  impressions 
each  day  brought  her,  seeking,  as  her  way  was,  to  realise 
them  by  tearing  them  out  of  herself,  and  giving  them 
objectivity.  A  royal  academician  picked  up  the  book 
from  the  corner  of  a  table  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
Clytie,  falling  easily  into  the  careless  ways  of  the  house- 
hold, had  thrown  it.  He  was  turning  over  the  pages 
when  Clytie  perceived  him,  and  rushed  impulsively  to 
him  across  the  room. 

"  Oh  !  you  mustn't  look  at  that,  Mr.  Redgrave.  Please 
don't  !  " 


10  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

He  looked  up  at  her  amusedly. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  rather  interesting.  Why  don't  you 
learn  to  draw  ?  " 

"  What  would  be  the  good  ?  "  she  said.  "  This  suits 
my  purpose." 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders  good-humouredly. 

"  That  all  depends  upon  what  your  purpose  is,"  he 
replied.  "  If  you  want  to  become  an  artist  you  must 
train  properly  for  it." 

Become  an  artist  !  The  words  haunted  her  all  that 
night.  They  opened  up  before  her  infinite  vistas  of 
possibilities,  life  in  the  midst  of  the  world,  the  knowledge 
of  its  greatnesses  and  its  mysteries. 

In  the  morning  she  wrote  to  him.  He  invited  her  to 
come  to  his  studio  and  talk  over  the  matter.  She  asked 
Mrs.  Farquharson  to  accompany  her,  but  her  hostess 
was  engaged  at  the  hour  in  question.  Clytie  looked 
disappointed.  The  home  traditions  asserted  themselves 
and  prevented  her  from  thinking  it  possible  to  go 
unchaperoned.  Mrs.  Farquharson  divined  this  and 
laughed  in  her  bright  way. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  the  man 
isn't  going  to  eat  you  !  " 

So  Clytie  went  alone  to  the  studio  to  learn  her 
destiny. 

"  You  have  great  talent,"  said  the  artist,  "  but  it  needs 
cultivation.  After  two  or  three  years'  severe  training 
you  may  do  something." 

Then  Clytie  asked  him  the  question  that  had  been 
burning  her  heart  for  two  days. 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  earn  my  own 
living  ? " 

"You  might  do  that  now,  if  you  chose,  and  had 
patience,"  he  replied. 

"How?" 

"  By  book  illustrating." 

"  But  I  want  to  become  a  great  artist." 

"  Doubtless.  Most  of  us  do.  You  may  if  you  try 
hard,  and  love  art  for  art's  sake.  But,"  he  added, 
looking  at  her  keenly — "  there  always  is  a  '  but,'  Miss 
Davenant." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ? "  she  asked  quickly. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  II 

"Farce  que,  as  the  French  say — begging  your  pardon." 
And  that  was  practically  the  end  of  the  conversation. 

All  this  had  happened  to  Clytie  three  months  before 
Mrs.  "Blather  had  discovered  the  offending  picture  in 
Clytie's  attic  studio  and  had  carried  it  to  her  father. 
After  this  foretaste  of  life  the  girl  wearied  more  than 
ever  of  Durdleham  with  its  soullessness,  its  stagnation, 
its  prim  formulas.  A  dangerous  reaction  of  spirit  set 
in,  leading  her  to  long  spells  of  hopeless  melancholy, 
alternating  with  outbursts  of  passionate  rebellion.  She 
would  stand  for  hours  in  the  recess  of  her  window 
gazing  over  the  flat  stretch  of  country,  and  dreaming 
strange  dreams  of  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  dreary 
horizon — dreams  in  which  sharp  reminiscence  mingled 
with  fancy  in  vague,  weird  shapes.  But  still  she  was 
beginning  to  realise  herself,  her  needs,  her  vague  crav- 
ings. Her  passionate  desires  now  flowed  into  some 
definite  channel — to  escape  at  all  costs  from  Durdle- 
ham, and  consequently  to  enter  that  free  world  of  art 
the  glimpse  of  which  had  enchanted  her. 

The  scenes  between  her  sisters  and  herself  were  of 
daily  occurrence.  The  narrower,  gentler  women  were 
shocked  at  her  wilfulnesses,  her  unladylike  behaviour  ; 
she  was  revolted  to  her  soul  at  the  pettiness  and  sordid- 
ness  of  the  disputes.  Existence  at  Durdleham  had 
become  impossible. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Gracie,  let  me  go  away  from  here," 
she  cried  one  day,  "  or  I  shall  hate  you — and  I  want  to 
love  you  if  I  can.  Let  me  go  to  London.  Auntie  will 
take  me  in.  Oh,  my  God  !  I  shall  go  mad  in  this  place 
among  you." 

And  Mrs.  Blather,  for  the  sake  of  her  own  tranquillity 
and  the  reputation  of  the  family,  made  up  her  mind  that 
Clytie  should  have  her  desire  and  that  Durdleham  should 
know  her  no  more.  And  in  the  end  Mrs.  Blather  gained 
her  father's  consent  to  the  arrangement ;  but  the  old 
man  looked  upon  Clytie  almost  as  a  lost  soul. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHEN  the  eager  young  soul  starts  out  unaided  to 
solve  the  riddle  of  life,  it  meets  with  many  paradoxes 
that  admit  of  no  solution,  and  many  sordid  simplicities 
that  only  unfamiliarity  made  it  regard  as  enigmas. 
Despair  in  the  one  instance  and  disgust  in  the  other 
not  unfrequently  drive  it  into  a  hopeless  pessimism,  in 
which  inaction  seems  to  be  the  least  pain.  Or  else  the 
soul  bruises  itself  in  vain  against  the  mocking  bars, 
shrinks  in  loathing  from  the  disveiled  corruption,  and 
flies  back  to  the  unavailing  aids  that  it  spurned  afore- 
time. It  is  cast  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death 
which  only  the  stout-hearted  can  pass  through  unshaken. 

The  multitude  stands  by  the  formulas  that  profess  to 
solve  the  eternal  problem.  It  follows  them  blindly,  like 
the  schoolboy  who  cares  not  whether  they  are  right  or 
wrong,  or  whether  the  answer  is  conclusive.  So  long  as 
there  is  an  answer  of  some  sort  its  mind  is  easy.  But 
there  are  earnester  inquirers  whom  these  formulas  do 
not  satisfy — who  see  that  they  are  followed  for  their 
own  sake,  that  they  never  can  lead  to  any  conclusions. 
The  soul,  now  of  a  people,  now  of  an  individual,  rebels  ; 
it  rejects  the  formulas  ;  it  starts  from  the  first  princi- 
ples of  being,  asserting  fiercely  its  individuality,  its 
inalienable  right  to  seek  after  truth  according  to  its 
own  methods.  These  are  prejudiced.  All  great  action 
must  be.  Because  a  system  is  rotten  and  incomplete  the 
perfervid  spirit  judges  that  every  factor  must  be  false. 
It  misses  the  fact  that  every  great  human  system  con- 
tains elemental  truths  of  vital  importance,  without  which 
it  must  fall  in  its  struggle.  And  at  last,  when  the  forces 
of  endeavour  are  well  nigh  spent,  it  finds  the  key  of  the 
great  enigma  inwrapped  in  a  greater  one  still,  in  the 
eternal  tragedy  of  things. 

It  was  with  this  burning  protest  against  formulas  that 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  13 

Clytie  entered  into  the  world.  They  had  been  presented 
to  her  in  their  smug  complacency  as  solving  all  mysteries 
human  and  divine.  She  had  seen  them  worshipped  as 
fetiches,  and  her  soul  revolted  against  the  futile  idolatry. 
She  was  too  young  to  examine  them  carefully,  to  see 
that  the  sacrosanctity  of  some  was  miserably  justified 
by  human  experience.  She  spurned  them  all,  and  she 
plunged  into  the  waters  of  Life,  a  rudderless  bark  in 
search  of  the  unknown. 

She  spent  two  years  in  study  at  the  Slade  School  in 
University  College,  living  under  the  protection  of  her 
aunt,  who  had  a  house  in  Russell  Square.  The  training 
was  severe  and  at  times  irksome.  But  she  learned  strict 
academical  rules  of  drawing,  in  spite  of  her  repugnance 
to  the  stern  coldness  of  the  antique.  After  her  term 
of  hard  training  was  over  she  went  for  a  year  into  a 
painter's  studio  and  learned  colour  and  painting  from 
the  live  model. 

They  were  years  of  probation,  as  Clytie  well  knew, 
and  they  brought  her  lessons  in  self-restraint,  both  in 
art  and  in  the  conduct  of  life.  Her  aunt,  Miss  Davenant, 
was  shrewder  and  broader-minded  than  her  brother, 
having  lived  more  in  the  whirl  of  humanity,  but  the 
formulas  of  Durdleham  were  ranged  as  household  gods 
upon  her  hearthstone,  and  Clytie,  out  of  pure  self-interest, 
was  bound  to  show  them  outward  respect.  To  compen- 
sate, however,  for  this,  Clytie  found  in  her  student  life 
many  experiences,  as  she  had  found  during  her  con- 
tinental trip,  with  which  she  could  fill  her  heart  without 
violating  her  aunt's  Lares  and  Penates. 

She  seldom  went  to  Durdleham.  She  had  an  odd 
feeling  that  she  was  in  disgrace  there  for  having  wished 
to  leave  it.  Besides,  both  Mrs.  Blather  and  Janet,  as  is 
the  inconsequent  way  of  such  women,  spoke  tauntingly 
of  her  gay  life  in  town,  and  contrasted  it  enviously  with 
their  country  dulness.  And  then,  too,  her  father  was 
always  querulous,  complaining,  not  of  her  absence  from 
home,  but  of  her  dissimilarity  to  her  sisters. 

"  My  dear  papa,"  she  said  one  day,  "  I  could  no  more 
be  like  them  than  they  could  be  like  me." 

"  You  might  if  you  had  tried,"  said  the  old  man. 


14  AT   THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

Clytie  looked  hopelessly  out  of  window.  What  possi- 
ble reply  could  be  made  ? 

The  happiest,  most  expansive  hours  that  Clytie  spent 
during  these  three  years  were  in  Harley  Street  with  the 
Farquharsons.  At  first  her  aunt  was  rather  averse  to  a 
continuance  of  the  intimacy.  Although  she  had  kept  up 
a  visiting  acquaintance  with  the  Farquharsons  since 
their  return  from  Switzerland,  and  liked  them  both  per- 
sonally, she  was  conscious  of  an  unfamiliar  atmosphere 
in  their  house.  The  instinctive  shrinking  from  the 
unknown  made  her  seek  to  draw  Clytie  back  with  her 
towards  the  security  of  her  own  accustomed  circle. 
But  eventually,  when  she  saw  that  the  girl,  to  whom  she 
had  grown  sincerely  attached,  found  real  happiness  in 
going  to  Harley  Street,  she  withdrew  her  tentative 
restrictions  altogether.  Perhaps  she  read  deeper  into 
the  girl's  heart  than  either  was  conscious  of,  and  realised 
that  in  the  Farquharsons'  society  Clytie  found  a  relief 
from  the  strain  of  everyday  life  with  her,  which  otherwise 
might  have  been  unbearable. 

The  conditions  of  the  household  in  Harley  Street  were 
favourable  to  the  development  of  unceremonious  inti- 
macy. Mrs.  Farquharson  herself  was  bred  in  that  strange 
London  world  we  call  Bohemia.  Her  father,  long  since 
dead,  had  been  a  journalist,  a  hack  story-writer,  a  maker 
of  plays,  sometimes  editor  of  a  smart  weekly,  at  others 
acting  manager  of  a  provincial  company.  Like  most 
men  of  his  type  he  spent  his  money  as  fast  as  he  earned 
it,  and  when  work  came  to  a  temporary  standstill  drew 
upon  the  prospects  of  his  next  success.  His  daughter 
Caroline  had  grown  up  in  cheerful  familiarity  with  this 
hand  to  mouth,  makeshift  existence.  She  had  been 
called  upon  so  often  from  her  earliest  childhood  to  con- 
done the  faults  of  her  father  and  those  of  his  intimates, 
who  were  men  of  much  the  same  mould  as  himself,  that 
a  general  habit  of  indulgence  became  natural  to  her. 
Folly  seemed  so  inherent  a  quality  in  humanity  that  not 
to  smile  tolerantly,  even  though  reprovingly,  upon  it  was 
with  her  an  impossibility.  The  lowering  of  moral  tone 
that  might  have  resulted  from  this  mental  attitude,  and 
from  a  continuance  of  the  same  conditions  of  life,  was 
prevented  by  her  early  marriage  with  a  man  of  assured 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  15 

income  and  position.  Her  father  died  shortly  afterwards 
and  her  connection  with  the  seamy  side  of  Bohemianism 
was  thoroughly  broken  off.  But  the  ingrained  habits 
of  freedom  and  carelessness  still  remained.  She  could 
never  learn  to  be  methodical,  systematic.  She  had  an 
inherited  dread  of  account-books,  household  rules,  fixed 
hours  for  meals,  and  appointed  places  for  every  domestic 
article.  It  was  fortunate  for  her  that  she  had  married  a 
man  who  worshipped  her,  and  himself  shared  her  distaste 
for  rigidly  organised  life.  His  means  had  placed  him 
beyond  the  necessity  of  working  for  his  livelihood,  and 
so  the  free  life  in  a  home  where  he  could  work,  idle,  eat, 
and  receive  his  friends  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night 
was  as  much  to  his  own  taste  as  to  that  of  his  wife. 

It  was  impossible  that  such  a  house  should  not  possess 
a  charm  for  those  to  whom  the  Farquharsons  gave 
their  friendship.  The  absence  of  formality  encouraged 
expansiveness  and  individuality.  There  was  a  tacit 
understanding  that  one  had  a  right  not  only  to  oneself, 
but  to  the  appreciation  of  oneself  by  the  host  and 
hostess.  It  was  this  that  Clytie  had  felt  during  her  first 
visit,  and  it  attracted  her  more  and  more  to  them  as 
time  went  on.  Gradually  the  house  became  a  second 
home  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Farquharson  a  friend  such  as  she 
had  never  known  before.  She  could  go  to  her  for 
strength  and  comfort  during  her  fits  of  depression  when 
the  time  seemed  out  of  joint,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least 
seem  called  upon  to  set  it  right.  The  restraints  of 
strict  draughtsmanship,  academic  modelling  and  group- 
ing, chafed  her  as  her  simple  arithmetic  had  done  at 
school.  She  longed  to  throw  them  off  and  to  plunge 
back  into  her  old  artistic  wilfulnesses.  But  these  occa- 
sions generally  coincided  with  fresh  sensations  of 
restraint  in  her  home  life,  and  she  was  wise  enough  to 
appreciate  the  fact. 

During  this  period  an  incident  occurred  in  her  life, 
giving  it  fresh  colour  and  helping  her  to  realise  herself 
more  fully.  Her  girlhood  had  been  far  removed  from 
the  lax  sphere  of  idle  flirtation  in  which  many  girls  are 
brought  up.  The  young  men  of  Durdleham,  who  might 
have  been  attracted  towards  her  by  her  beauty,  were 
frozen  by  her  scarcely  veiled  impatience  at  their  society. 


16  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

The  dominant  impulse  towards  active  search  after  life 
had  swayed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  any  less  powerful 
motive,  and  it  had  scarcely  yet  occurred  to  her  that  her 
personality  might  interest  and  possibly  influence  others. 
She  was  too  absorbed  in  her  work,  in  her  dimly  shadowed 
yet  ever-haunting  plans  for  the  future,  in  the  individ- 
ualities round  her,  in  the  foretaste  of  that  full  sense  of 
living,  in  the  stirring  objectivity  of  London  life,  to  dwell 
at  all  earnestly  on  subjective  matters  and  to  devote 
much  attention  to  self-analysis.  It  is  only  when  the 
question,  "  How  do  others  affect  me?  "  ceases  to  interest 
that  the  other  question,  "  How  does  my  personality  affect 
others  ? "  begins  to  assume  a  paramount  importance. 
The  possibility  of  a  man  falling  in  love  with  her  was 
a  factor  as  yet  absent  from  her  scheme  of  practical 
life. 

She  learned  that  such  an  event  had  occurred  from 
Mrs.  Farquharson.  She  had  gone  to  her  one  Monday 
morning,  depressed,  out  of  tune,  to  seek  consolation. 

"  Oh,  why  am  I  not  a  man  ? "  she  exclaimed  petulantly. 
"  Why  can't  I  live  by  myself,  go  where  I  like,  and  see 
what  I  want  to  see  ?  " 

Her  friend  laughed  good-humouredly. 

"  You  want  to  do  too  much  at  once,  my  dear.  The 
world's  your  oyster,  as  ancient  Pistol  said,  and  you  would 
force  it  open  with  one  wrench.  As  for  wishing  to  be  a 
man,  you  are  by  no  means  original.  Lots  of  girls  say 
that,  but  when  they  grow  older  they  think  it's  just  as  well 
for  them  that  they  are  women." 

"  What  on  earth's  the  good  of  being  a  woman  ? " 
asked  Clytie,  with  rather  unnecessary  emphasis. 

One  of  her  studio  companions  had  asked  her  to  join 
a  party  at  a  theatre,  and  her  aunt  had  demurred  on 
the  ground  that  ladies  ought  not  to  go  to  that  particular 
house.  It  showed  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  world  on 
the  old  lady's  part,  but  Clytie  did  not  realise  it,  and 
although  she  accepted  the  decision  with  good  grace,  it 
fretted  her.  These  trivial  things  fret  even  the  wisest 
amongst  us  quite  as  much  as  the  important  ones  do. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  did  not  reply,  but  continued  placidly 
her  usual  Monday  morning's  occupation  of  putting  her 
music  in  order,  while  Clytie  watched  her  from  the  long 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  17 

rocking-chair  where  she  was  sitting,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  head. 

"  What's  the  good  of  being  a  woman  when  one  has  to 
pass  half  one's  life  shut  up  in  darkness  ?  It's  bad  enough 
being  a  human  being  as  it  is,  and  having  to  sleep  the 
other  half." 

"  How  old  are  you,  my  dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Farquharson, 
looking  at  a  song. 

"  You  know,"  replied  Clytie.     "  Twenty." 

"  Then  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  young  man  of 
twenty — or  even  two-and-twenty  ?  How  would  you  like 
to  be  young  Beaumont,  for  instance  ?  Do  you  think  he 
knows  so  very  much  more  than  you  do  ?" 

"  He's  such  a  boy,"  said  Clytie. 

"  And  you,  my  dear,  are  such  a  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson, coming  up  behind  her  chair  and  smoothing  her 
cheeks.  "  But  you  are  many  years  older  than  he  is — and 
likely  to  remain  so.  Do  you  know  why  we  women  like 
to  be  women  ?  Because  we  see  so  many  things  that  men 
would  give  the  eyes  of  their  heads  to  know.  Hasn't  it 
ever  struck  you  that  we  are  familiar  with  a  side  of  life 
that  is  almost  forever  hidden  from  men  ?  And  as  for 
that  particular  side  that  men  have  exclusively  to  them- 
selves, it  is  neither  very  pretty  nor  comfortful." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  why  men  stop  talking  when  one 
goes  into  the  smoking-room,"  said  Clytie.  "You  hear 
shouts  of  laughter  outside  the  door,  and  you  think  they 
must  be  having  an  awfully  good  time,  and  when  you 
appear  in  the  doorway  they  seem  to  pull  themselves 
together,  and  one  or  two  always  look  red  and  sheepish." 

"  I  should  advise  you  to  read  the  story  of  Bluebeard," 
said  Mrs.  Farquharson. 

"You  are  just  as  bad  as  the  rest,"  cried  Clytie,  half 
laughing  and  half  vexed.  "  I  never  thought  it  of  you. 
That's  what  I  have  always  been  told  :  Never  try  to  find 
out  what  you  don't  know.  Always  remain  in  a  state  of 
blissful  ignorance.  Men  are  superior  beings,  and  a 
good  little  girl  ought  to  accept  her  position  with 
meekness." 

"I  could  a  tale  unfold,"  said  her  friend,  "but  I 
won't.  It  is  too  early  for  you.  If  you  want  to  make 
experiments  on  your  own  account  there  is  young  Beau- 


1 8  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

mont  for  you.  He  will  tell  you  the  sum  total  of  his 
knowledge  in  ten  minutes." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  like  him,"  said  Clytie,  leaving  the 
main  track  of  the  conversation.  "  He  always  looks  so 
clean,  and  his  clothes  fit  him  so  well,  and  he  is  so  ser- 
viceable. He  always  seems  to  be  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  himself,  since  God  has  done  so  little  for  him. 
And  it's  very  plucky  of  him  to  try  to  improve  on  the 
Almighty." 

"  I  would  not  like  him  too  much." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  My  poor  Clytie  !  You  haven't  even  got  the  elements 
of  woman's  knowledge  yet.  Can't  you  see  why  Beau- 
mont wears  those  very  chaste  ties  and  those  wonderfully 
shiny  boots,  and  does  errands  all  over  London  for  you  ? 
Oh,  dear  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he ?  " 

Mrs.  Farquharson  looked  at  her  quizzically  and 
nodded. 

"  Therefore  I  would  not  like  him  too  much." 

Obeying  a  first  impulse,  Clytie  burst  out  laughing. 
It  seemed  so  ridiculous.  Beaumont  was  a  good-look- 
ing, fresh-faced  young  fellow  of  two-and-twenty,  a  dis- 
tant relation  of  the  Farquharsons,  and  a  habitue  of  the 
house.  She  had  met  him  there  many  times  and  had 
begun  to  feel  quite  friendly  towards  him.  Besides,  he 
had  fetched  and  carried  for  her  in  the  most  useful  way. 
She  had  never  thought  of  his  falling  in  love  with  her. 
As  he  was  the  last  man  she  herself  would  have  thought 
of  falling  in  love  with,  she  found  the  event  ludicrous. 

She  stopped  laughing  suddenly,  and  crimsoned  to  her 
hair  ;  then  rushed  impulsively  up  to  Mrs.  Farquharson, 
and  put  her  arm  round  her  waist. 

"  I  am  sorry ;  forgive  me.  What  must  you  think  of 
me  !  I  could  not  help  it,  indeed  I  couldn't.  You  put 
me  in  such  a  new  light  before  myself.  And,  dear  Mrs. 
Farquharson,  I  do  so  want  you  to  see  the  best  side  of 
me." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  her  friend,  "  you  don't  suppose 
that  with  your  face  and  your  nature  you  are  going  to 
pass  through  life  without  having  men  falling  in  love  with 
you  !  You  see  what  a  lot  you  have  to  learn.  You  want 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  19 

to  have  a  man's  experiences  before  you  have  passed 
through  the  elementary  ones  of  a  woman." 

"  And  Mr.  Beaumont — what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  don't  fret  yourself  about  him.  He  will  get 
over  it.  He  has  no  end  of  this  sort  of  thing  to  go 
through  before  his  life  is  up.  It  will  do  him  good." 

Clytie  had  not  much  time  to  map  out  any  fixed  plan 
of  treatment  of  her  would-be  lover,  for  he  met  her  an 
afternoon  or  two  afterwards  outside  University  College, 
where  he  had  been  waiting  for  her,  and  pleaded  that  she 
would  walk  a  little  way  up  towards  the  Regent's  Park,  as 
the  afternoon  was  fine. 

Clytie  looked  at  him  and  hesitated. 

"  Only  just  a  little  way.  I  have  something  I  must 
tell  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  best  never  tell  it,"  said  Clytie. 

The  red-waistcoated  gate  porter  behind  them  beamed 
on  them  smilingly.  He  had  seen  something  of  youthful 
love  in  his  professional  career. 

"  I  must,  whatever  happens,"  replied  the  young  fellow. 
"  I  know  it's  wrong  to  ask  you  to  walk  in  the  street  with 
me,  but  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  get  another  chance." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  wrong  about  it,"  said  Clytie. 
"  I  will  go  with  you  wherever  you  wish." 

So  they  wandered  up  Gower  Street  and  the  Euston 
Road  into  the  park,  and  there,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  Clytie  heard  a  man  confess  his  love  for  her  and  ask 
her  to  marry  him.  He  was  only  a  boy  after  all,  but  he 
was  in  great  earnest.  Clytie  felt  humbled,  almost  guilty, 
and  yet  a  great,  unknown  pleasure  thrilled  through  her. 
Although  she  knew  that  the  sooner  and  more  summarily 
the  interview  was  brought  to  an  end  the  better  for  both 
herself  and  him,  she  could  scarcely  resist  the  temptation 
of  allowing  him  to  pour  out  the  fulness  of  his  boyish  love 
for  her. 

She  suddenly  found  herself  listening  to  the  sound  but 
not  the  meaning  of  his  words,  her  senses  filled  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  new  sensations  and  the  pure  May  sun- 
light that  flooded  the  trees  and  the  gay  flower-bed  oppo- 
site the  bench  where  they  were  sitting.  Then  she  real- 
ised her  situation,  and  in  a  few  kind  words,  harder  to 
speak  than  she  would  have  expected,  dismissed  him. 


20  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter.  He  went  off 
whither  young  men  in  his  predicament  generally  betake 
themselves,  and  Clytie  returned  slowly  home  to  Russell 
Square. 

When  she  had  reached  her  own  room  she  went  delib- 
erately up  to  the  glass  and  scanned  her  features.  Then 
she  laughed  a  strange,  contented  little  laugh,  and  taking 
off  her  hat  and  gloves,  went  downstairs  to  tea.  She  had 
advanced  several  steps  along  the  road  to  knowledge. 

Three  years  !  How  quickly  they  passed  !  How  sure 
yet  dimly  working  were  their  influences  !  If  they  were 
years  of  probation  and  self-restraint  for  Clytie,  they  also 
brought  with  them  softening  influences.  Hitherto  her 
life  had  been  one  of  revolt  and  harsh,  crude  judgments 
that  had  turned  away  friendship  and  had  left  her  solitary. 
Mutual  misconception  and  misunderstanding  had  crushed 
sisterly  love.  Her  heart  had  never  been  touched  by  real 
affection.  Now  she  had  friends,  real  ones,  in  the  Far- 
quharsons  whom  she  could  love  for  their  own  sakes,  and 
pleasant,  sympathetic  ones  in  her  companions  at  the 
Slade  School  and  at  the  studio.  She  learned,  too,  the 
sweetness  of  active  protection  and  helpfulness.  Her 
aunt,  though  somewhat  stronger-fibred  than  the  rest  of 
the  Davenants,  possessed  their  essential  physical  charac- 
teristics. Her  health,  which  had  been  failing  for  some 
years,  gradually  gave  way  altogether.  During  the  few 
months  of  her  last  illness  she  depended  entirely  upon 
Clytie  for  care  and  tenderness.  It  was  a  new,  strange 
experience  for  the  girl.  She  learned  to  love  the  faded 
elderly  lady  who  bore  her  sufferings  so  calmly,  so  cheer- 
fully. Both  Mrs.  Blather  and  Janet  offered  to  come  and 
nurse  her,  but  Miss  Davenant  would  have  none  but 
Clytie.  If  this  period  of  selflessness  and  sacrifice  had 
lasted,  who  knows  what  sweet  effacement  of  individu- 
ality might  have  resulted  ?  Who  knows  into  what  chan- 
nels of  pity  and  sublime  endeavours  of  mercy  the  girl's 
full,  ardent  nature  might  have  been  directed  ?  But  the 
high  gods  had  ordained  otherwise.  Miss  Davenant  died, 
and  Clytie  again  found  herself  with  the  unknown  destiny 
before  her  that  had  to  be  worked  out  unaided. 

It  was  only  after  the  first  outburst  of  grief  that  she 
realised  this  fully.  She  had  gone  back  to  Durdleham, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  21 

with  a  new  range  of  feelings  freshly  revealed.  Her  sis- 
ters she  found  were  gentle,  quiet  women  like  her  aunt, 
narrower  perhaps,  with  thin  currents  of  old  prejudice 
still  running  through  them,  but  still  lovable  and  sympa- 
thetic in  her  sorrow.  They  welcomed  her  back  like  a  lost 
sheep  to  the  fold.  Never  had  her  home  life  seemed  so 
peaceful,  comfortful  ;  London  was  scarcely  mentioned, 
and  her  sisters  agreed  between  themselves  that  Clytie's 
absence  from  home  was  an  episode  of  the  past,  never 
to  recur. 

But  time  wears  and  effaces  the  deepest  intaglio  of 
impression,  even  that  of  a  young  girl's  first  knowledge 
of  death  and  eternal  loss.  Gradually  the  quietude  of 
eventless  life,  as  the  need  for  it  wore  away,  grew  weari- 
some, oppressive,  and  the  old  restless  cravings  began  to 
gnaw  at  her  heart.  The  breach  that  death  had  closed 
slowly  widened  again,  so  gradually  that  not  till  it  was 
fully  appreciable  did  the  sisters  recognise  it.  The 
formulas  seemed  narrower,  more  lifeless  than  ever.  She 
had  viewed  dimly  the  potentialities  of  life,  and  her  soul 
burned  within  her  with  a  fiercer  hunger.  Almost  against 
her  will  she  revolted  finally. 

"  What  is  this  that  Janet  has  been  telling  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Blather  one  morning,  "  about  your  wanting  to 
go  back  to  London  ?  You  cannot  be  in  earnest, 
Clytie  ?  " 

Clytie  looked  at  her  sister  rather  sadly,  tears  spring- 
ing into  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me  since  I  have  come 
back,  Gracie,  and  I  have  learned  to  love  you  more  than 
I  did  before — much  more.  But  can't  you  understand, 
dear,  that  if  I  am  to  go  on  loving  you  I  must  go 
away  ?  " 

"  I  can't  see  it  at  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Blather.  "  If  we 
have  got  on  so  nicely  together  these  last  few  months, 
why  can't  we  continue  ?  Janet  and  I  are  willing  to  give 
you  all  in  our  power  to  make  you  happy." 

"  Ah  !  but  don't  you  see  that  what  I  want  is  out  of 
your  power  to  give?  "said  Clytie.  "  Don't  think  I  am 
wicked  and  ungrateful.  If  a  man  wants  five  pounds,  he 
is  grateful  to  anyone  who  gives  him  one  ;  but  that  does 
not  lessen  his  need  of  the  other  four.  Now  the  other 


22  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

four  pounds  are  not  to  be  got  in  Durdleham,  Gracie,  and 
I  must  have  them." 

"  You  should  learn  content,  Clytie,"  said  her  sister. 
"  We  have  all  to  put  up  with  our  lot  in  life." 

Clytie  checked  an  impulse  of  impatience  at  the  plati- 
tude, and  answered  with  great  gentleness  of  voice  and 
manner : 

"  This  is  not  my  lot  in  life,  dear.  It  is  quite  different. 
You  and  Janet  can  bear  it,  because  your  natures  crave 
this  tranquillity.  Mine  craves  movement,  excitement, 
strange  faces.  Oh,  Gracie,  it  is  no  use  talking — I  must 
go  away,  or  I  shall  begin  to  hate  Durdleham  as  I  used 
to  do.  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  here.  I  am  too 
bad  for  it,  perhaps.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  explain  it  to 
you  ;  you  have  never  felt  it." 

"  My  dear  Clytie,  that  is  all  nonsense,"  said  Mrs. 
Blather,  who  prided  herself,  above  all  things,  on  being  a 
woman  of  common  sense.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  you 
can't  go  to  London,  because  you  would  have  no  one  to 
live  with,  and  you  would  only  have  your  hundred  a  year 
to  support  you,  as  papa  has  lost  a  great  deal  of  money 
lately  and  can  hardly  afford  to  give  you  an  allowance. 
When  your  aunt  was  alive  it  was  a  different  thing.  The 
whole  idea  of  going  to  live  alone  in  London  is  silly. 
So  there's  an  end  of  it." 

Mrs.  Blather  went  on  with  her  sewing,  with  mingled 
feelings  of  content  at  having  done  her  duty  and  disap- 
pointment in  the  failure  of  promise  of  reform  in  Clytie, 
She  would  have  judged  her  sister  mercifully  had  she 
been  able.  She  was  naturally  a  gentle  woman,  full  of 
kindness.  But  her  canons  of  duty  would  not  allow  her 
to  encourage  or  condone  wilfulness,  caprice,  and  a  tend- 
ency to  wrong-doing.  She  earnestly  believed  it  was  for 
Clytie's  good  to  stay  in  Durdleham.  The  girl's  wider 
needs  she  could  not  understand. 

Clytie  turned  from  the  hearthrug,  where  she  had  been 
standing,  to  the  drawing-room  window,  and  looked  out 
blankly  at  the  rain.  Her  young  face  was  set  rather 
hard  ;  her  lips  quivered  a  little  ;  her  heart  beat  quicker 
than  usual.  A  struggle  was  taking  place  within  her — 
the  struggle  between  the  girl  and  the  woman.  She  felt 
that  the  great  moment  of  her  life  had  come.  She  must 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  23 

choose.  Which  should  it  be  :  the  dazzling  light  with  its 
weird  shadows  of  things  unseen,  or  the  gray,  easeful 
glimmer  in  which  the  familiar  realities  cast  no  shadow  ? 
Which  should  it  be  :  daughterly  duty  and  maidenly 
retirement,  or  the  sundering  of  home  ties  forever  and 
going  out,  one  woman,  to  battle  with  the  world  ? 

She  turned  away  from  the  window  at  last  and  called 
to  her  sister.  The  latter  looked  up  and  was  filled  with 
foreboding  as  she  saw  the  girl's  pale  face. 

"  Yes.     What  is  the  matter,  Clytie  ? " 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind,  Grade,"  she  said  a  little 
huskily.  "  I  am  going  to  London  to  live  by  myself.  I 
can  share  lodgings  with  one  of  the  girls  I  know  at  the 
Slade  School.  There  will  be  no  difficulty.  I  can  earn 
money  ;  I  have  already  earned  a  little.  As  for  mamma's 
money,  I  am  of  age  now,  and  it  is  my  own  to  do  what  I 
like  with  it — as  you  and  Janet  do.  Let  this  be  an  end 
of  the  discussion,  Gracie.  I  am  going." 


CHAPTER  III. 

FEW  people,  in  an  outburst  of  enthusiasm,  would 
select  the  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  as  an  ideal  locality  to 
reside  in.  It  is  an  important  thoroughfare,  no  doubt, 
but  it  lacks  nobility  and  distinction.  There  are  isolated, 
quiet  spots  in  it,  with  houses  lying  back  from  the  road  ; 
and  from  the  upper  windows  of  favoured  residences  one 
can  obtain  a  view  over  Veitch's  or  Bull's  extensive  hot- 
houses, and  catch  dim  shadows  of  great  tropical  palms  and 
a  mellowed  dash  of  brilliant  red  and  yellow.  There  are 
others  which  look  over  Portman  Square  or  St.  Luke's 
Churchyard.  But  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  long 
stretches  of  dreary  shops  and  factories,  grit  and  general 
uncomeliness.  Without  being  squalid,  it  has  a  careworn, 
untidy  appearance,  as  if  it  was  far  too  much  harassed 
with  the  petty  worries  and  strain  of  workaday  life  to 
think  of  cheerful  adornment.  Few  people,  except 
errand  boys  whose  sense  either  of  aesthetics  or  duty  is 
usually  undeveloped,  saunter  casually  along  the  King's 
Road.  A  stranger  tries  to  get  out  of  it  as  fast  as  he 
can  ;  a  frequenter  has  his  business  to  attend  to.  Fashion 
does  not  pass  along  it,  except  on  tearing  drags  bound 
for  Hurlingham.  It  is  essentially  a  small  bourgeois  part 
of  London,  with  all  the  small  bourgeois  unpretence  and 
honest,  if  somewhat  dismal,  solidity. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  such  a  dreary  stretch  of  the 
road,  some  half  mile  west  of  Sloane  Square,  that  Clytie 
found  a  lodging.  The  fact  that  a  green-grocer's  shop, 
owned  by  the  landlord  of  the  house,  occupied  the  ground 
floor  was  compensated,  in  a  measure,  by  the  existence  of 
a  small  studio  at  the  back,  on  the  first  floor,  originally 
constructed  by  a  struggling  photographer,  who  had  since 
worked  his  way  upwards  into  a  more  fashionably  perfumed 
atmosphere.  One  of  Clytie's  favourite  fellow-students, 
Winifred  Marchpane,  who  lived  in  Lower  Sloane  Street, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  25 

and  whose  family  obtained  their  potatoes  and  salads 
from  Mr.  Gurkins,  had  recommended  the  establishment, 
and  offered  to  share  with  her  the  expenses  of  the  studio. 
The  cheapness  of  the  rooms  suited  Clytie's  modest  purse, 
and  the  prospect  of  pleasant  companionship  in  the  studio 
was  an  additional  attraction.  It  is  true  that  the  acrid 
smell  of  the  potatoes,  when  the  side  door  from  the  shop 
on  to  the  private  entrance  lobby  was  left  open,  ascended 
the  stairs,  together  with  a  vague  odour  of  cooking,  bear- 
ing upwards,  as  it  were,  on  savoury  breath  the  disputes  of 
Mrs.  Gurkins  with  the  shopboy  and  the  cries  of  her  appar- 
ently ever-youthful  progeny.  The  incessant  rumble,  too, 
of  omnibuses,  drays,  and  furniture  vans,  and  the  peculiarly 
aggressive  rattle  of  tradesmen's  carts,  shook  the  floor 
and  the  windows  and  shivered  the  lustres  of  the  chan- 
delier. There  were  many  drawbacks  to  elegant  life,  but 
Clytie,  borrowing  some  philosophy  from  a  talk  with  Mrs. 
Farquharson,  proceeded  to  disregard  those  she  could 
not  eliminate.  The  sitting-room,  when  the  door  was 
shut  and  the  curtains  drawn  of  an  evening,  was  cosy 
enough.  The  pictures,  nicknacks,  hangings,  and  other 
minor  accessories  of  furnished  apartments  Clytie  had 
returned  to  Mrs.  Gurkins'  keeping,  on  the  plea  that  she 
scarcely  had  room  for  her  own — which  was  true  ;  and, 
by  some  miraculous  art  of  persuasion,  she  had  induced 
Mr.  Gurkins  to  remove  the  nerve-shattering  chandelier, 
on  the  ground  that  she  could  not  work  by  gaslight — 
which  was  not  true.  She  hung  thick  curtains  over  the 
door  to  keep  out  noise  and  odour,  broke  up  the  rigidity 
of  the  furniture  by  screens,  small  tables,  and  plants,  and 
painted  a  long  panel  for  the  old  cottage  piano  that  made 
it  look  fresh  and  companionable.  When  all  the  arrange- 
ments were  completed  the  room  appeared  dainty  and 
homelike,  bearing,  however,  here  and  there,  in  bold  notes 
of  colour,  folds  of  drapery,  and  odd  bits  of  semi-impres- 
sionist painting,  a  peculiar  impress  of  its  tenant's  per- 
sonality. 

She  was  living  at  last  the  life  she  had  so  passionately 
longed  for.  There  was  not  a  human  being  to  control 
her  actions,  not  a  conventionality  to  check  the  utterance 
of  her  thoughts.  During  her  early  days  here  she  almost 
felt  tempted  to  hang  up  her  latchkey  over  the  mantel- 


26  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

piece  as  a  glorious  symbol  of  liberty.  It  seemed  not 
only  to  serve  to  give  her  entrance  to  her  own  modest 
home,  but  to  be  the  power  that  would  unlock  the  heart 
of  the  great  London  that  lay  before  her. 

From  the  first  she  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  work. 
Dealers  bought  small  pictures  and  gave  her  orders. 
She  also  pleased  a  firm  of  publishers  to  whom  she  had 
gone  with  letters  of  introduction  and  specimens  of  her 
draughtsmanship,  and  obtained  work  in  the  way  of  book 
and  magazine  illustrating.  Her  earnings  were  not  large, 
but  there  was  the  promise  of  success  to  come.  At  the 
end  of  two  years  her  income  was  large  enough  to  have 
enabled  her  to  move  from  the  King's  Road  into  a  more 
refined  locality ;  but  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  its 
noise  and  rattle,  and  to  the  hurried,  joyless  stream  of  life 
that  flowed  along  it  day  by  day.  And  Mrs.  Gurkins 
understood  her  tastes  and  habits,  a  quality  in  a  landlady 
appreciated  by  women  as  well  as  men.  So  she  stayed  on. 

She  read  widely  during  these  years,  learned  much. 
Between  the  ages  of  twenty-two  and  twenty-four  a  woman 
is  capable  of  vast  assimilation  of  ideas.  They  can  flow 
into  the  freshly  opened,  unpolluted  channels  of  her  being, 
as  yet  unclogged  by  the  refuse  of  sorrows  and  weari- 
nesses. Her  rejection  of  the  old  formulas,  and  the 
paramount  necessity  of  gaining  knowledge  wherewith  to 
provide  herself  substitutes,  checked  in  her  any  impulse 
towards  moral  or  artistic  idealism.  She  read  deeply, 
instinctively  seeking  after  the  roots  of  life,  the  elemental 
passions  that  shake  our  nature,  be  its  superstructure 
never  so  delicately  complex.  The  dawning  knowledge 
half  frightened,  half  attracted  her.  The  barbaric 
feminine  in  her  struggled  to  escape  into  solitude.  With 
fluttering  eyelids  downcast  it  recoiled  from  the  idea 
of  passion  as  yet  unawakened  responsively  within  her. 
But  the  higher  needs  of  modernity  constrained  her  to  a 
just,  resolute  system  of  inquiry.  She  learned  that  there 
are  deeper  laws  regulating  our  being  than  those  which 
could  be  enunciated  at  Durdleham  tea-tables,  where  the 
ingrained  habit  of  non-recognition  of  them  restricted 
life  within  narrowest  limits,  and  put,  as  it  were,  a  prohibi- 
tion tax  upon  exoteric  sympathy. 

At  four-and-twenty  Clytie  was  a  woman — emotional, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  27 

impulsive,  eager  to  taste  of  any  new  experience.  The 
old  rebellious  habit  of  mind  had  developed  into  a  frank 
independence.  Her  step  was  elastic,  her  bearing  confi- 
dent. Her  life  was  full  and  happy. 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  a  woman  now,"  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Farquharson.  "  I  seem  to  have  all  the  advantages  of 
both  sexes." 

"  Wait  till  you're  married,  my  dear,"  replied  her  friend. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  was  fond  of  the  use  of  affectionate 
irritants.  They  are  often  valuable  preservatives  of 
friendship. 

Clytie  laughed. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  marry  some  day.  I  don't  want  to 
end  up  by  leading  half  a  life  ;  but  I  want  to  have  two  or 
three  years  more  of  this.  I  must  play  at  being  a  man 
a  little  longer." 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  man  !  "  said  Mrs.  Farquharson, 
resting  her  chin  on  her  hand  and  looking  at  Clytie  with 
amused  eyes.  "  You  are  the  most  deliciously  feminine 
young  woman  I  know.  Look  at  your  frock  and  your 
hair." 

Judging  by  outward  appearances  Mrs.  Farquharson's 
criticism  was  correct.  Clytie  had  the  artistic  sense  in 
dress.  It  was  like  most  of  her  other  artistic  impulses, 
with  the  personal  note  dominant — soft  textures,  falling 
easily  into  folds,  quiet  in  tone,  dark  grays,  subdued  half 
shades  of  yellows,  suddenly  brightened  by  a  small,  daring 
flash  of  colour  at  throat  or  bosom.  Lace,  with  its  creamy, 
clinging  softness  delighted  her,  and  she  wore  it  defi- 
antly, with  a  certain  sense  of  triumph  that  she  was  per- 
haps the  only  girl  in  England  who  could  wear  it  with 
faultless  taste. 

She  was  of  medium  height,  but  her  slender,  fully 
formed  figure  and  its  erect  carriage  gave  her  an  air  of 
tallness.  Her  head  set  well  on  her  shoulders,  and  a 
habit  of  holding  it  back,  with  the  chin  pointing  upwards, 
free  of  the  throat,  added  to  the  impression  of  young, 
fearless  womanhood.  Her  eyes  were  dark  blue,  wide 
apart,  yet  sunk  in  finely  moulded  orbits.  A  light  of 
humour  playing  in  their  depths,  together  with  a  soft 
modelling  of  the  nose  contours  beneath  them,  atoned 
for  an  impression  of  hardness  and  sensuousness  that 


28  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

would  have  been  given  by  the  ripe,  full  lips  with  their 
little  curl  of  disdain.  Her  face  was  rounded  delicately 
— that  much  she  inherited  from  the  Davenants — but 
a  faint  flush  of  colour  showed  the  buoyant  young  blood 
within,  just  as  her  deep  red  hair,  with  a  thousand  lights 
dancing  in  it,  attested  the  rich,  vigorous  strain  that  had 
asserted  itself  in  her.  She  was  proud,  womanlike,  of 
this  hair,  and  had  a  way  of  dressing  it  in  bewildering 
confusion. 

Her  Slade  School  friend,  Winifred  Marchpane,  con- 
tinued to  share  the  studio  with  her.  At  first  she  had 
been  a  little  afraid  of  Clytie,  whose  bold  judgments  and 
fearless  expression  of  opinion  were  not  qualified  always 
to  attract  a  timorous,  shrinking  nature.  But  gradually 
the  stronger  personality  had  overpowered  the  weaker 
and  bound  it  to  itself  by  unbreakable  bonds.  A  great 
friendship  had  thus  arisen  between  the  girls,  based  on 
Winifred's  side  on  enthusiastic  admiration,  almost  wor- 
ship, and  on  Clytie's  on  a  tender  feeling  of  love  and  pro- 
tection. 

Winifred  was  one  of  a  large  family,  her  father,  a 
retired  officer  in  the  army  with  limited  income.  Two 
of  her  sisters  were  governesses,  earning  their  liveli- 
hood miles  away  from  home.  Another  one  took  charge 
of  the  smaller  members  of  the  household.  Winifred, 
who  had  a  dainty  talent  for  the  painting  of  still  life, 
supported  herself,  living  at  home  and  paying  her  share 
of  the  household  expenses.  She  was  a  little,  gentle 
creature,  with  dark  hair,  and  with  a  rich  colour  showing 
beneath  a  brown  cheek.  Her  deep  brown  eyes  had  a 
doglike  trustfulness  in  them,  and  a  steadfastness  withal 
such  as  makes  the  heroine.  A  girl  of  few  moods,  few 
caprices.  Her  work  was  always  beautifully,  conscien- 
tiously finished.  She  always  loved  it,  always  found  in 
it  the  same  quiet  charm.  There  was  no  element  of 
passion  in  it  to  set  jarring  the  strings  of  futile  endeavour. 
A  fine  sense  of  colour  and  gradation  and  subtle  curve, 
a  supreme  delicacy  of  touch — that  was  her  sole  artistic 
stock  in  trade,  and  she  never  sought  to  stray  beyond  the 
limits  imposed.  She  had  had  a  little  picture  accepted  at 
the  Academy,  hung  in  a  far,  far  corner — a  bunch  of 
Mare'chal  Niel  roses,  full-blown,  in  a  Venetian  glass  vase 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  29 

of  exquisitely  veined  transparencies — a  perfect  little  pic- 
ture, sweet  and  pure,  like  herself. 

It  was  a  cold  March  day.  The  sun  shone  cheer- 
fully through  the  drawn  white  blinds  of  the  studio  sky- 
light, but  an  east  wind  blowing  outside  came  in  through 
the  cracks  and  defied  the  blaze  of  the  fire  in  the  stove. 

"  You  are  quite  blue  with  cold,"  said  Winifred,  laying 
down  mahl-stick  and  palette.  "  Here,  put  on  this  wrap. 
Why  don't  you  take  more  care  of  yourself  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,"  said  Clytie,  shivering  a  little 
and  accepting  contentedly  the  wrap  and  a  caress.  "  I 
was  sketching  out  quite  a  history  of  that  boy  who  has 
just  left." 

Winifred  drew  a  stool  to  Clytie's  chair  near  the  fire  and 
took  up  her  position  upon  it — a  favourite  one  with  her, 
as  she  could  have  both  the  moral  solace  of  sitting  at 
Clytie's  feet,  and  the  physical  comfort  of  resting  her 
head  in  Clytie's  lap. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  bring  all  kinds  of  horrible  people 
into  the  house — burglars,  you  know,  like  Oliver  Twist," 
she  added  vaguely. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  rather  rash  picking  up  a  model  out  of 
the  streets.  But  he  is  just  the  boy  I  wanted  to  give 
character  to  the  group.  I  was  going  to  paint  in  one  out 
of  my  own  head." 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  get  all  those  street  types  out 
of  your  head,  Clytie.  I  wish  I  could  do  it." 

"  I  would  like  to  see  you  try,  you  silly  child,"  said 
Clytie,  laughing.  "  Your  street  arabs  would  look  like 
stray  Cupids  hastily  huddled  up  in  old  clothes  by  a 
shocked  and  modest  policeman  !  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  ;  you  know  I  didn't.  What  I 
meant  was — I  wish  I  could  paint  without  models.  I 
don't  think  I  could  paint  a  common  flat  leaf  without 
having  it  before  me.  As  for  painting  that " — and  she 
pointed  to  a  basket  standing  by  her  easel,  overflowing 
with  anemones,  snowdrops,  and  violets  obtained  that 
morning  by  Mr.  Gurkins  from  Covent  Garden — "  with- 
out a  copy,  I  might  just  as  soon  think  of  flying." 

"  You  are  an  artist,  Winnie,  and  love  your  art  for  its 
own  sake.  I  am  not  quite  so  sure  that  I  do,  now.  To 
3 


30  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

have  to  finish  all  the  thousand  little  convolutions  of  those 
bells  would  drive  me  raving  mad.  I  should  like  to  have 
a  ghost  as  sculptors  do,  only  mine  would  do  the  finish- 
ing and  put  in  all  the  nuisance  of  detail.  That's  why  I 
can  get  on  without  models.  It  saves  time.  I  can  bring 
home  a  face  with  me  from  the  streets,  and  I  can  paint  it 
in  rapidly,  and  then  I  am  done.  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to 
be,  but  Burrowes  seems  satisfied.  He  says  he  has  got 
quite  a  '  line  '  in  my  pictures — the  correct  ones — and  is 
thinking  of  raising  the  price.  I  am  sure  that  man  has 
been  a  linen-draper." 

"  If  you  could  remember  the  boy's  face  why  do  you 
bring  him  here  ? "  asked  Winifred.  "  I  only  want  to 
know  why  you  want  him  so  particularly,  dear,"  she 
added,  raising  her  chin  and  looking  upwards  at  Clytie. 

The  boy  had  been  ragged  and  uncared-for,  not  exactly 
a  street  urchin,  but  on  a  vague  borderland  of  respect- 
ability, between  the  newspaper  arab  and  the  errand  boy. 
— a  hybrid  with  the  vices  of  many  strains. 

"  Do  you  really  want  to  know,  Winnie  ? "  said  Clytie. 
"  Perhaps  you'll  be  shocked.  However,  you'll  have  to 
know  sooner  or  later  :  I  am  going  to  make  a  picture  of 
him  on  my  own  account,  just  a  little  bit  more  fantastic 
than  he  is,  and  call  him  a — an — oh,  dear  !  what  shall  I 
call  him  ?  " 

"An  elf  ?" 

"  Good  gracious,  no.  What  have  I  to  do  with  elves 
and  fairies  and  that  sort  of  thing  ?  He  is  the  son  of 
Cophetua — supposing  the  king  had  not  married  the 
beggar  maid." 

"  Then  why  not  the  son  of  any  other  king  ?" 

"  Why  not,  indeed  ?"  said  Clytie  drily.  "Or  of  any 
other  beggar  maid  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Winifred,  looking  into  the  fire. 

And  then  after  a  pause  : 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ? " 

"  Did  you  see  his  mother  ?  I  did.  Such  a  stupid- 
looking,  red-faced  woman.  I  think  she  said  she  was  a 
charwoman  by  profession.  There  are  generations  of 
drudgery  in  her  face,  whereas  in  Jack's  there  is  vigour 
and  intelligence — something  so  different  ;  he  must 
some  better  strain  of  blood  in  him  than  she  ana  .. 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  31 

band  of  her  class  can  have  given  him.     Don't  you  think 
so,  dear  ? " 

"  He's  a  very  pretty  boy,"  replied  Winifred,  "  but,  oh, 
he  is  so  dirty  and  " — with  a  shudder — "so  animal." 

"  Well,  he  fascinates  me,"  said  Clytie  meditatively. 
"  I  am  going  to  paint  one  of  my  wildest  pictures — all 
for  my  own  self — and  a  bit  for  you  if  you  like,  Winnie." 

Winnie  accepted  this  tribute  of  affection  with  a  little 
flush  of  pleasure,  although  Clytie's  "own"  pictures 
seldom  gave  her  unqualified  aesthetic  delight,  and 
turned  her  face  towards  Clytie,  who  laughed  in  her 
frank  way. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  with  those  great  eyes  of  yours, 
child  !  You  make  me  angry  for  you.  They  are  just  the 
sort  of  eyes  that  make  women  miserable.  You  must  not 
trust  in  people  like  that,  believe  me." 

"  I  trust  them  when  they  are  good  like  you,  dear." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't.  Don't  you  know  I  am  the 
wickedest  girl  going — always  thinking  of  the  most 
dreadful  things  ?  Look  at  the  wall.  How  can  you  love 
anybody  that  can  do  these  silly  things  ?" 

She  pointed  to  a  series  of  grotesque  charcoal  carica- 
tures on  the  studio  wall.  She  had  been  dissatisfied  a 
day  or  two  back  with  a  picture  she  had  been  engaged 
on  for  a  month,  and  in  a1  fit  of  wilfulness  had  daubed  it 
out  and  then  proceeded  to  make  a  cruel,  fantastic  travesty 
of  it  on  the  wall. 

"  You  wanted  your  tea,  dear,  just  as  you  do  now," 
replied  Winifred. 

This  tea  hour  was  Winifred's  great  delight.  At  home, 
on  account  of  the  children,  they  had  to  sit  round  the 
dining  table  and  butter  their  own  thick  slices  of  bread 
and  drink  out  of  substantial  breakfast  cups.  In  the 
studio  the  girls  had  provided  a  dainty  little  afternoon  tea 
equipage,  and  Mrs.  Gurkins  always  cut  thin  bread  and 
butter  from  a  fancy  loaf.  Generally  it  was  Winifred 
who  poured  out  the  tea,  butto-day  Clytie  busied  herself 
with  the  cups,  thus  making  some  slight  amends,  perhaps, 
for  having  shocked  Winifred.  Women  are  full  of  these 
odd  feminine  impulses,  and  other  women  understand 

•^n.     Men  don't. 

1   'sat  talking,  as  they  usually  did,  over  their  tea, 


32  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA. 

and  long  afterwards,  until  it  was  time  for  Winifred  to  go 
home.  As  they  were  taking  leave  of  each  other  on  the 
landing  a  man  sprang  up  the  stairs,  checked  himself,  and 
raised  a  slouch  hat  as  he  passed  them  and  vanished  up 
the  next  flight.  He  was  a  fresh  faced  man,  with  a  brown 
and  tawny  beard  ;  tawny  ends,  too,  to  his  moustaches  ; 
bright  gray  eyes  flashing  humourously  as  he  passed  the 
girls.  His  dress  was  careless,  loose  and  unfashionable, 
yet  it  was  marked  with  a  certain  individuality. 

"Who  is  that?"  Winifred  whispered  when  the  last 
foot  of  the  ascending  figure  had  disappeared. 

"  That's  another  protest,"  said  Clytie — "a  better  one. 
He  has  the  courage  of  his  convictions." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Clytie  ?  " 

"  Well,  can't  you  recognise  a  protest  when  you  see 
one  ? " 

"  Oh,  Clytie,  don't  tease  and  puzzle  me,"  cried  Wini- 
fred, giving  her  friend's  arm  a  little  shake.  "  Do  you 
know  him  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  How  should  I  ?  But  Mrs.  Gurkins 
was  telling  me  about  him  only  this  morning.  His  name 
is  Kent.  He  seems  to  frighten  the  life  out  of  her,  and 
therefore  I  say  he  is  a  protest.  Now  you  know,  so  run 
away  home." 

When  Winifred  had  reached  the  street  door  Clytie 
leaned  over  the  banisters  and  called  after  her. 

"Winnie!  I  must  have  been  in  a  sweet  temper  this 
afternoon." 

"  Of  course,  dear.     Why  do  you  say  so  ? " 

"  Because  you  have  left  your  basket  of  anemones  for 
me  to  take  care  of  !  " 


CHAPTER  IV, 

WHEN  Winifred  had  gone  Clytie  took  an  omnibus  to 
Cheyne  Walk,  where  some  friends  of  hers  lived,  and 
after  her  visit  returned  to  her  solitary  dinner.  It  argued 
some  strength  of  mind  in  Clytie  that  she  did  not  give 
way,  as  many  lonely  women  do,  to  a  distaste  for  ordi- 
nary food,  and  a  corresponding  craving  for  the  miscel- 
laneous and  not  over  wholesome  meal  denominated 
high  tea.  She  had  not  reached  the  stage  of  feminine  de- 
pression and  sense  of  helplessness  when  inchoate  banquet- 
ing on  bread  and  butter  and  penny  buns  seems  to  bring 
cheerless  solace.  Her  temperament  seemed  almost  virile 
in  its  vigour,  and  although  she  had  her  sex's  antipathy 
to  gastronomy,  she  nevertheless  found  it  reasonable  that 
she  should  be  provided  with  a  decently  served  dinner. 
Besides,  Mrs.  Gurkins,  who  was  professionally  interested 
in  food  stuffs,  held  solid  views  on  the  subject.  She 
herself  had  a  good  appetite,  and  her  little  girl  children 
ate  everything  they  could  lay  their  little  white  teeth  to  ; 
she  did  not  believe  in  not  being  hungry.  It  was  one 
of  her  grievances  that  her  other  lodger,  Mr.  Kent  up- 
stairs, cooked  his  own  victuals  scramblingly,  and  would 
not  allow  her  to  see  that  his  wants  were  duly  satisfied. 
Accordingly  she  bestowed  extra  care  upon  Clytie. 

After  the  cloth  was  removed  Clytie  continued  the 
book  she  had  been  reading  during  the  meal,  and  at  last 
flung  it  aside.  She  rose  and  walked  about  the  room, 
somewhat  restless.  She  felt  lonely — vaguely  desirous  of 
action,  and  yet  idle.  Was  it  a  dumb  premonition  of 
fate,  this  restlessness  ?  At  any  rate  it  led  her  to  per- 
form a  trivial  action  which  set  in  motion  the  currents  of 
her  future  life. 

She  sat  down  at  her  writing  table  that  stood  in  the 
recess  between  the  fireplace  and  the  light-curtained 
window  and  lit  a  couple  of  candles,  whose  pretty  red 

33 


34  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

paper  shades  threw  a  rosy  glow  around  the  corner  of  the 
room.  It  was  only  a  simple  note  that  she  scribbled, 
hastily,  boldly,  as  was  her  wont.  Then  she  left  the 
candles  burning,  and  returned  to  her  armchair  by  the 
fire  and  gave  herself  up  to  meditation. 

The  boy  model  she  had  engaged  that  morning  inter- 
ested her  powerfully.  She  shrank  from  an  insistence 
upon  the  solution  of  the  little  problem  she  had  offered 
to  Winifred  during  the  afternoon,  hovering  over  and 
away  from  it.  Her  sense  of  type  and  personality  was 
too  acute  not  to  be  profoundly  struck  by  the  difference 
between  his  mother  and  himself.  On  the  one  hand  was 
dulness,  commonness,  a  coarse-fibred  nature  responsive  to 
the  stirrings  of  neither  hope  nor  despair,  a  dull,  uncom- 
plaining drudge  ;  on  the  other  hand  a  quick,  fiery  tempera- 
ment, showing  itself  in  flashing  black  eyes,  delicate  nos- 
trils, wiry,  curly  brown  hair — all  made  picturesque  by 
unqualified  dirt.  And  yet,  despite  this  refinement  of 
feature,  there  was  cruelty,  brutality  even,  written  on  the 
childish  face.  That  might  be  the  fault  of  his  upbringing, 
thought  Clytie.  But  his  beauty — where  did  it  come  from  ? 
She  smiled  as  she  thought  of  King  Cophetua.  It  was 
the  beggar  maiden's  grace  that  had  won  the  king's  heart, 
and  grace  was  a  quality  that  Jack's  mother  most  dis- 
tinctly lacked.  Clytie  felt  dimly  conscious  of  being  on 
the  verge  of  an  appalling  discovery.  Her  reading  had 
been  catholic  enough,  and  her  independent  acquaintance 
with  life  sufficiently  broad,  to  render  the  fact  familiar  to 
her  that  kings  and  beggar  maidens  if  they  fall  in  love 
with  each  other  usually  dispense  with  the  ceremony  of 
marriage.  But  then  love  pardons  all — a  formula  in 
Clytie's  new  theory  of  social  statics,  perhaps  wisely  not 
accepted  in  Durdleham — and  all  the  sorrow  in  lawless- 
ness that  had  come  within  Clytie's  small  experience  had 
been  in  her  eyes  sanctified  by  love.  Yet  who  could  have 
loved  this  woman  ?  She  was  not  more  than  three-and- 
thirty  now — young  enough  to  show  that  she  had  never 
possessed  the  mere  attraction  of  comeliness.  The  boy 
remained,  however,  a  living  proof. 

She  thought  of  Winifred,  and  sighed  a  little.  Why 
should  she  be  forever  craving  after  this  strange  hidden 
knowledge,  after  the  taste  of  things  bitter,  when  there, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  35 

was  so  much  sweetness  in  life  ?  The  thought  of  Wini- 
fred's pure,  gentle  touch  in  flowers  and  delicate  bloom  of 
fruit  and  calm,  transparent  glass  came  over  her  like  a 
rebuke.  And  then  she  smiled  again,  remembering  how 
Winifred  had  coaxed  her  once  to  try  and  paint  a  bunch 
of  roses,  and  how  dismayed  she  had  been  at  the  egregious 
failure.  No  ;  the  cobbler  must  not  go  beyond  his  last. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  am  very  wicked  after  all,"  she  said 
to  herself. 

She  rested  her  chin  upon  her  hand  and  let  her  thoughts 
wander  idly,  building  up  a  romance  for  Jack.  He  was  a 
foundling,  of  noble  parents,  and  Mrs.  Burmester  was  only 
his  foster  mother.  Then  she  roused  herself  with  a  little 
exclamation  of  disgust  : 

"  What  a  perfectly  Durdleham  solution  !  " 

The  next  moment,  with  an  instinct  common  to  folks 
whether  at  Durdleham  or  London,  she  sprang  from  her 
chair  and  cried  : 

"  There's  something  burning  !  " 

The  room  in  fact  was  full  of  thin  smoke,  and,  as  Clytie 
rose,  a  snake  of  red  flame  ran  up  the  curtains  by  the 
writing-desk.  She  rushed  to  them,  but  as  soon  as  she 
had  touched  them,  the  folds  being  shaken  out,  the  whole 
burst  into  a  blaze.  She  fled  to  the  door  about  to  scream 
"  Fire  !  "  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

What  happened  next  neither  she  nor  John  Kent  could 
afterwards  exactly  explain.  He  was  on  his  way  down- 
stairs when  the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  and  a 
stream  of  light  burst  on  to  the  gloomy  landing.  Clytie 
ran  almost  into  his  arms  crying,  "  My  room  is  on  fire  !  " 
and  then  he  was  tearing  down  blazing,  fiery  curtains, 
smothering  them  with  rugs,  and  stamping  out  glowing 
masses  of  drapery  amid  much  smoke  and  confusion.  It 
did  not  take  very  long  to  extinguish  the  flames,  but  the 
struggle  while  it  lasted  was  fierce  and  exciting.  Clytie 
stood  by  watching  him,  her  hand  at  her  throat.  It  was 
a  new  sensation  to  her  to  have  a  man  acting  for  her  in 
an  emergency.  She  had  failed.  She  saw  by  the  man's 
energy,  his  fearless  dealing  with  the  blazing  mass,  his 
strength,  his  violence,  that  she  never  could  have  suc- 
ceeded. She  admired  him;  was  angry  at  it ;  felt  herself 
a  helpless  woman,  was  angry  at  that  too ;  wished  that 


36  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  danger  had  been  a  little  greater,  at  which  she  was 
more  angry  than  ever. 

However,  when  the  last  traces  of  the  fire  were  extin- 
guished, and  the  man  stood  before  her,  somewhat  out  of 
breath,  wiping  his  forehead,  this  little  train  of  emotions 
came  to  an  end.  She  gazed  piteously  at  her  curtainless 
windows  and  scorched  wainscoting.  He  turned  and 
opened  the  window,  whence  the  damp,  gusty  wind 
whirled  the  smoke  in  billowing  drifts  about  the  room. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  with  a  breath  of  relief. 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  ? "  said  Clytie. 

"  Don't,"  he  replied  with  cheerful  laconism.  "  I  am 
glad  I  was  handy — for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own. 
I  live  upstairs." 

"  I  know  ;  I  have  seen  you  come  in  and  out.  In 
fact,  you  passed  us  to-day.  But  still  you  have  saved 
the  whole  house,  and  I  thank  you  very,  very  much  !  " 

"  How  did  it  all  happen  ? "  he  asked,  removing  tor  the 
first  time  his  white  slouch  hat  and  disclosing  a  shock  of 
brown  curly  hair. 

"  The  candle-shade  on  the  desk ;  do  you  see  ?  It 
must  have  caught  fire  and  toppled  over  on  to  the  cur- 
tains. I  was  sitting  here  and  forgot  I  had  left  the 
candles  alight ;  and  then  I  smelled  something  burning 
and  saw  the  curtains  in  a  blaze.  Then  I  ran  out  to  call 
somebody." 

"  That  was  very  stupid,"  said  Kent,  pushing  back  the 
desk  from  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  he  had  wheeled 
it;  "by  opening  the  door  you  made  the  things  burn 
quicker.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  drag  down  the  cur- 
tains and  cover  them  with  the  hearthrug.  And  then  it 
is  very  silly  to  use  paper  candle-shades.  They  are  no 
good,  and  they  are  always  causing  accidents.  I  hope 
you  are  not  going  to  get  any  more." 

The  assured  paternal  air  with  which  Kent  delivered 
himself  of  this  little  speech  did  away  with  its  apparent 
rudeness.  Clytie,  who  at  first  looked  rather  resentfully 
at  her  rebuker,  laughed. 

They  bent  down  together  to  restore  order  among  the 
singed  rugs.  Beneath  them  was  Kent's  waterproof,  on 
to  which  he  had  thrown  the  blazing  curtains.  It  was 
very  badly  burned  and  of  course  rendered  useless. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  37 

"  It  is  utterly  ruined  !  "  exclaimed  Clytie,  examining 
the  holes  with  a  helpless  expression  of  regret  on  her 
face. 

And  then  her  eyes  suddenly  fell  upon  a  great  ugly 
red  splash  upon  his  hand.  He  withdrew  it  hastily,  but 
she  caught  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  The  stuff  came  away 
between  her  fingers. 

"  You  have  burned  yourself  horribly.  Oh,  what  can 
I  do  ? " 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Kent.  "  It  doesn't  hurt.  I'll  go 
and  put  something  on  it.  Please  don't  trouble.  Good- 
night." 

He  moved  towards  the  door,  with  his  hat  and  burned 
waterproof  in  his  hand.  But  Clytie  could  not  let  him 
leave  in  this  way.  The  woman  in  her  was  moved. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  go  until  I  have  seen  what  harm  you 
have  got.  I  should  feel  so  unhappy  about  it.  I  may  be 
able  to  dress  it  for  you — until  you  can  see  a  doctor." 

She  spoke  so  sincerely,  so  frankly,  and  looked  at  him 
with  such  genuine  concern,  that  he  surrendered  with  a 
good  grace.  He  came  forward  to  the  table  where  the 
big  lamp  was  burning  and  put  out  his  arm  for  her  in- 
spection. It  was  really  injured,  and  was  beginning  to  be 
exceedingly  painful. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  it  ?  "    she  asked  rather  helplessly. 

"  Oh,  some  olive  oil  and  a  bit  of  rag  will  be  the  best." 

Clytie  produced  some  cotton  wool  and  some  oil  from 
a  cruet  in  the  sideboard  and  then  sought  after  some 
linen  to  bandage  with.  Kent  noticed  that  she  did  not 
ask  him  for  his  handkerchief,  nor  did  she  use  her  own, 
but  went  rather  impulsively  to  a  workbasket  and  tore  off 
a  strip  of  soft  material  that  was  lying  on  the  top.  It  was 
very  expensive  stuff,  and  the  whole  piece  of  work  of 
which  it  was  to  form  a  part  was  spoiled.  It  was  charac- 
teristic of  her.  Another  woman  would  have  remembered 
where  she  had  stored  some  odds  and  ends  of  old  linen. 

Kent  watched  her  curiously  as  she  was  bending  over 
his  hand.  He  had  often  seen  her  before,  but  his  life 
went  on  so  far  outside  the  sphere  of  women  that  he  had 
scarcely  given  her  a  thought  as  he  had  passed  her  by. 
He  had  never  even  inquired  her  name.  From  the  mere 
fact  of  her  renting  the  studio  it  had  come  involuntarily 


38  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

to  his  knowledge  that  she  followed  pursuits  more  or  less 
artistic  ;  but  his  curiosity  had  never  been  aroused.  Now 
that  he  had  been  suddenly  thrown  into  close  contact  with 
her  he  was  interested.  He  smiled  at  himself  for  the 
unwonted  pleasure  he  found  in  watching  the  lights  danc- 
ing through  her  hair,  the  brows  contracted  ever  so  little 
in  the  absorption  of  her  occupation,  the  long  nervous 
fingers,  set  on  the  broad  palm,  deftly  arranging  the  cot- 
ton wool,  the  scrap  of  old  lace  at  her  throat  and  wrists. 
She  was  pretty,  striking,  to  look  upon,  but  he  had  not 
formed  a  very  high  impression  of  her  otherwise.  It  was 
just  the  sort  of  thing  a  woman  would  do,  to  run  out  of 
the  room  when  it  was  on  fire,  to  give  up  thinking  for  her- 
self in  any  emergency  and  trust  blindly  in  Providence — 
or  a  man.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  those  men  who  see 
least  of  women  know  most  concerning  them. 

As  she  raised  her  head  after  pinning  the  bandage  she 
caught  the  expression  of  amusement  on  his  face.  He 
was  quick  to  note  the  little  shadow  of  resentment  that 
passed  over  hers. 

"  I.  was  thinking  what  a  mess  I  should  have  made 
of  it  by  myself,"  he  said  with  a  tact  that  surprised  him. 
"  Thank  you  very  much." 

"  It  was  the  least  I  could  do,"  replied  Clytie.  "  I  feel 
so  guilty  about  it  all — and  your  poor  waterproof  too." 

"  It's  a  very  old  one,"  he  replied  good-humouredly, 
holding  the  garment  out  for  inspection.  "  My  friends 
will  be  delighted.  They  have  threatened  to  cut  me  in 
the  streets  if  they  saw  me  in  it  again.  So  you  see  you 
have  secured  my  friendship  for  me.  And  I  shall  get  on 
much  better  with  an  umbrella  to-night." 

"  But  you're  surely  not  going  out  to-night !  "  cried 
Clytie,  moving  to  the  window  and  shutting  it,  as  if  he 
were  intending  to  escape  through  it.  "  It  is  pouring 
wet,  and  you  would  catch  cold  in  your  hand — it 
would  get  inflamed,  or  something  dreadful.  It  is  stupid 
of  people  not  to  take  care  of  themselves.  It's  hurting 
fearfully,  isn't  it  ?  Tell  me." 

She  looked  at  him  so  frankly,  her  head  thrown  back  a 
little,  and  spoke  with  such  a  faint  touch  of  imperiousness 
in  her  voice,  that  Kent  checked  his  impulse  of  retreat. 

"Of  course  it  hurts.      But   I   don't  mind.     If  one 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  39 

minded  all  the  little  pains  of  this  life,  one  would  have  no 
time  for  anything  else.  Besides,  I  am  used  to  rough  it  a 
bit.  It  is  my  own  choice,  more  or  less,  and  I  like  it." 

Clytie  remembered  the  strange  stories  Mrs.  Gurkins 
had  told  her  about  Kent's  way  of  life.  She  had  listened 
to  them  with  idle  interest,  never  imagining  that  Kent  and 
herself  would  ever  become  acquainted.  Now  that  he 
alluded  to  his  habits  she  felt  bound  to  confess  her  share 
in  the  gossip,  which  she  did  somewhat  rebelliously,  check- 
ing certain  more  timorous  promptings  of  silence. 

"  So  you  see  I  know  all  about  you,"  she  said  in  con- 
clusion. "  When  people  are  eccentric  they  become,  as  it 
were,  public  characters.  Now  if  you  were  to  talk  to 
Mrs.  Gurkins " 

"  Heavens  forbid  ! "  cried  Kent  with  much  warmth. 
"  I  was  fleeing  from  her  this  afternoon  when  I  nearly 
knocked  you  down." 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Clytie,  laughing. 

"  I  don't  know — instinct,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  wrong.  Otherwise  I  might  have  known  something 
more  of  you.  It's  a  bad  compliment,  I  am  aware,  but  I 
have  been  here  a  whole  year  and  I  have  never  seen  or 
heard  your  name.  Might  I  know  whom  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  assisting  ?  I  did  not  in  the  least  care  before, 
but  now  it  is  different." 

There  was  an  honesty  and  directness  in  his  voice  that 
pleased  Clytie.  She  felt  glad  he  had  asked  her.  There 
is  a  touch  of  susceptible  vanity  even  in  the  most  emanci- 
pated of  women. 

"  My  name  is  Davenant,  and  I  am  by  way  of  being  an 
artist — that  is  to  say,  I  gain  my  living  by  it." 

Her  eyes  wandered  unconsciously  round  the  room 
hung  with  many  of  her  half-finished  sketches.  Kent 
followed  her  glance,  and  then  crossed  to  the  wall  and 
examined  one  or  two  of  the  pictures. 

"Are  these  yours?"  he  asked,  turning  round  quickly. 

They  were  charcoal  sketches  of  street  scenes,  direct 
and  daring.  Kent  received  Clytie's  nod  of  assent,  and 
glanced  at  the  pictures  and  then  at  her  again,  as  if  trying 
to  reconcile  the  two. 

"  Is  all  your  work  of  this  kind  ? " 

"Mostly.     Sometimes  I  draw  it  milder,"  she  added, 


40  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

with  a  smile,  "  when  definite  orders  come  in  ;  but  I  feel 
more  at  home  with  this  sort  of  thing." 

Kent  returned  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  he  had 
been  standing  before. 

"  I  am  not  an  artist  myself,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  been 
brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  art  and  I  love  it.  My 
father  was  Rupert  Kent,  painter-etcher  ;  he  did  that 
little  thing  over  your  mantelpiece." 

"Isn't  it  a  perfect  little  piece  of  work?"  said  Clytie, 
looking  round  at  it.  "  I  am  very  fond  of  it." 

"  So  was  my  father.  Well,  you  see,  I  am  not  a 
Philistine  in  art  matters,  and  when  I  say  your  work 
interests  me  I  mean  it.  I  should  like  to  look  at  some 
more  of  it.  Where  is  it  to  be  found  ? " 

"  You  can  come  any  time  to  my  studio  if  you  like. 
It  is  my  place  of  business,  you  know,  and  perhaps  you 
may  get  me  some  orders.  Art  is  terribly  mercenary  in 
these  days." 

"I  want  to  see  the  things  you  do  for  yourself,"  said 
Kent  bluntly,  ignoring  the  little  hedge  wherewith  she 
had  fenced  her  invitation.  "  It  will  be  very  kind  of  you 
to  let  me  come." 

Clytie  held  out  her  hand  to  him  as  he  bade  her  good- 
night and  thanked  him  for  his  help. 

"  And  now  that  we  know  each  other,"  she  said,  "  I 
hope — I  hope  you  won't  cut  me  on  the  stairs." 

When  he  had  gone  Clytie  looked  ruefully  at  the 
damage  that  had  been  done.  Her  pretty  inside  curtains 
were  destroyed  ;  the  heavy  outer  ones  burned  into  great 
charred  holes.  The  carpet  and  hearthrug  were  badly 
scorched,  and  the  side  of  her  writing  table  warped  and 
blistered.  As  she  gazed  at  the  wreck  she  went  over  the 
little  scene  in  her  mind.  Why  had  she  stood  still,  leav- 
ing the  whole  of  the  work  to  Kent  ?  What  must  he  have 
thought  of  her  ? 

If  he  had  been  any  ordinary  man  of  her  acquaintance 
she  would  have  been  still  angry  with  herself  for  her 
helplessness,  and  her  anger  would  have  reflected  itself 
on  him.  But  now  she  put  the  question  to  herself  more 
through  curiosity  than  irritation.  There  was  a  sim- 
plicity about  the  man  that  attracted  her.  His  words  had 
been  blunt,  almost  rude  sometimes,  but  his  voice  had 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  41 

been  kind,  his  manner  protective,  straightforward.  She 
had  signally  marked  her  approbation  for  him  by  asking 
him  to  visit  her  studio,  a  privilege  she  only  accorded  to 
a  few  tried  and  very  sympathetic  men  friends.  Kent 
interested  her,  and  yet  she  had  not  the  slightest  desire 
to  transfer  her  impression  of  him  to  canvas. 

The  next  morning  she  gave  Winifred  an  account  of 
the  last  evening's  incidents,  confessing  her  own  impres- 
sions in  her  wilful,  half-cynical  way.  Her  friend  listened 
meekly,  wondering  at  her  earnestness.  The  curtains 
had  caught  fire,  a  gentleman  had  come  opportunely  to 
her  aid,  had  burned  his  hand,  which  she  had  tended  in 
common  courtesy.  It  was  all  so  very  natural.  As  for 
feeling  humiliated  at  being  helped  by  a  man,  what  are 
women  put  in  the  world  for  except  to  yield  and  give  way 
before  men  ? 

But  Winifred  did  not  say  this  to  Clytie. 


CHAPTER  V. 

JOHN  KENT,  antiquarian,  scientist,  Bohemian,  and 
assistant  curator  in  the  British  Museum,  dwelt  in  the 
attics,  far  above  the  limit  of  the  stair  carpet.  By  the 
time  you  had  reached  them  you  had  lost  all  sound  of  the 
thoroughfare  below,  and  even  when  you  looked  out  of 
the  windows  all  sense  of  locality  was  lost.  Nothing 
could  be  seen  but  roofs  and  chimney-pots,  except  on 
very  clear  days,  when,  through  an  accidental  vista  of 
streets,  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  Chelsea  Hospital  were 
dimly  visible.  But  in  Kent's  rooms  no  one  cared  to  look 
out  of  window.  In  the  first  place,  it  was  difficult  of 
access,  and  in  the  second,  the  extraordinary  appearance 
of  the  apartment  riveted  one's  attention  entirely  to 
things  within. 

On  the  floor  was  neither  carpet  nor  rug.  The 
place  of  a  fender  was  supplied  by  three  large  iron  tri- 
pods, waifs  from  some  dismantled  chemical  laboratory, 
which,  when  they  were  not  otherwise  engaged  as  foot- 
stools, served  to  support  a  kettle,  a  saucepan,  and  a 
glue-pot.  All  around  the  walls,  with  just  one  space  for 
the  door,  ran  a  broad  deal  dresser  that  did  duty  for 
several  tables,  and  below  it,  here  and  there,  were  cun- 
ningly contrived  cupboards.  Above,  every  inch  of  wall 
was  covered  :  one  side  completely  with  books,  the  others 
with  pictures,  mostly  old  engravings,  little  masters  such 
as  Cranach  and  Behm,  a  frame  of  perfect  little  Aldegrav- 
ers,a  Prince  Rupert  mezzo,  two  Woolmers  with  their  exqui- 
site wavy  lines,  Bewicks,and  a  magnificent  modern  Jacque- 
mart  etching  of  a  Sevres  vase.  The  intermediate  spaces 
were  filled  up  with  a  heterogeneous  assortment  of  curios. 
The  dresser-table  was  likewise  laden  with  books, 
coin  cases,  scientific  specimens,  strange  weapons,  old 
axe-heads,  Japanese  sword  hilts  cunningly  carved,  news- 
papers, journals,  pamphlets,  and  papers  innumerable. 
There  were  only  two  fairly  clear  spaces  around  the  whole 

42 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  43 

extent  :  one  where  Kent  worked,  and  another  where  he 
took  such  meals  as  he  had  in  his  lodgings.  Save  for  one 
solitary  leather  writing-chair,  the  centre  of  the  large 
room  was  absolutely  empty  ;  but  in  a  corner,  on  the 
floor,  were  piled  up  a  set  of  canvas  deck-chairs  which 
Kent  brought  out  and  opened  whenever  he  had  visitors. 

All  the  fixtures  in  the  room  he  had  made  with  his  own 
hands.  Manual  labour  was  a  delight  to  him.  He  also 
cooked  his  own  food  and  cleaned  out  the  room.  The 
latter  operation  consisted  in  raking  out  the  ashes  from 
his  grate  and  laying  the  fire  afresh.  No  peace-destroy- 
ing woman  disturbed  the  precincts  with  broom  and  duster. 
When  the  dust  grew  so  thick  that  it  interfered  with  his 
breathing  and  clouded  the  lens  of  his  microscope  he 
went  round  with  an  old  towel  flicking  and  flapping  with 
great  energy,  and  then  he  watered  the  floor  out  of  an 
old  bronchitis-kettle. 

Kent  was  a  happy  man.  He  had  convictions,  enthu- 
siasms ;  manifold  interests  in  life  for  his  lighter  moments, 
one  great  absorbing  work  for  his  serious  hours.  His 
slender  income  sufficed  amply  for  all  his  wants,  and  there 
was  always  a  margin  over  for  the  purchase  of  an  occasional 
rare  edition  or  print  or  curio.  Whenever  his  salary  was 
increased  that  margin  was  greater.  His  mode  of  life 
never  changed,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  considered 
it  to  be  the  most  delightful  one  possible.  Purple,  fine 
linen,  and  sumptuous  fare  had  no  charms  for  him.  It 
was  always  with  much  groaning  of  spirit  that  he  put  on 
dress  clothes  when  he  went  out  into  the  world.  He 
cared  not  for  the  high  places  in  the  synagogues.  Pro- 
vided he  had  not  to  wait  outside  the  doors,  the  pit  of  a 
theatre  was  a  place  as  desirable  as  the  stalls. 

In  his  friends  too  he  was  happy — a  few  men  different 
from  himself  and  from  each  other — and  to  these  he  clung 
loyally.  But  the  conditions  of  his  life  removed  him 
from  feminine  influences.  Beyond  those  girls  in  his 
immediate  family  circle,  whom  he  called  by  their  Chris- 
tian names  and  treated  with  an  old-fashioned,  brotherly 
protection,  scolding  them  when  they  did  foolish  things, 
such  as  wearing  light  shoes  in  wet  weather,  performing 
little  services  for  them  when  they  behaved  themselves 
nicely,  he  never  troubled  his  head  about  womankind. 


44  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

On  the  night  when  Clyde's  curtains  caught  fire  he 
had  been  on  his  way  to  visit  a  coterie  of  three  bachelor 
friends  who  shared  a  house  in  South  Kensington.  They 
were  accustomed  to  his  nocturnal  appearances,  and  the 
worse  the  night  and  the  later  it  grew  the  more  likely 
was  Kent  to  present  himself  at  the  sitting-room  door,  a 
dripping,  ruddy  apparition,  his  cheeks  and  beard  glisten- 
ing with  raindrops.  And  then  he  would  throw  off  his 
mackintosh,  call  for  slippers,  and  join  the  circle  round  the 
fire.  The  thoughts  of  the  dreary  tramp  home  between 
two  and  three  never  seemed  to  dismay  him.  Cheerless- 
ness  of  environment  in  no  way  affected  his  happiness. 

They  formed  the  chief  part  of  his  social  life,  these 
three  friends,  tried  by  the  changes  in  fibre,  tastes, 
affinities,  that  over  half  a  score  of  years  effect.  There 
was  Fairfax,  the  doctor,  ruddy,  full-blooded,  magnetic 
with  health  and  vitality,  whose  brass  plate  shone  huge 
on  the  front  door,  inviting  confidence  ;  Greene,  the 
solicitor,  shrewd,  hard-headed,  a  speaker  of  few  words  ; 
and  Wither,  the  civil  servant,  the  little  gnomelike  man, 
full  of  strange  sayings,  whimsical,  non-moral,  a  man  of 
boyish,  elfin  beauty,  trusted  by  men,  petted  by  women. 
Of  the  three  Kent  loved  Wither  best.  Wither  saw 
deeper  into  the  world's  mysteries  than  he,  but  his  own 
sturdy  honest  sense  had  kept  the  other  from  many  an 
abyss. 

After  bidding  Clytie  good-night,  Kent  stood  irresolute 
on  the  landing.  Should  he  wrap  the  remains  of  his 
waterproof  around  him,  and  still  go  whither  his  truest 
happiness  had  hitherto  always  led  him  ?  Considerations 
of  the  chill,  sleeting  night  and  the  throbbing  pain  in  his 
hand  went  for  nothing  in  his  decision.  The  girl  who 
had  tended  the  burn  had  almost  besought  him  not  to  go 
out.  To  disregard  her  would  be  an  act  of  discourtesy. 
Thus  thought  honest  Kent  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and 
slowly  mounted  the  stair.  But  his  evening  had  been 
spoiled,  he  told  his  briarwood  pipe,  with  a  consoling 
sense  of  martyrdom,  and  the  cause  thereof  was 
feminine. 

"  It  is  just  the  silly  sort  of  thing  that  Agatha  would 
do,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Agatha  was  his  sister,  whom  he  pitied  intensely  for 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  45 

being  a  woman.  He  thought  of  Clytie's  pictures,  the 
signs  of  virility  in  them,  and  he  began  to  pity  Clytie  too. 
Yet  there  was  a  difference  of  kind  in  his  sentiments. 
He  pitied  his  sister  for  being  constrained  to  ambitionless- 
ness  and  futility  ;  he  was  sorry  for  the  handicap  of  sex 
to  Clytie's  ambitions. 

In  some  such  attitude  of  mind  towards  her  he  knocked 
at  the  studio  door  the  following  afternoon.  It  is  true 
that  a  warning  throb  of  the  bourgeois  in  him,  that  still 
sometimes  mutely  guided  the  Bohemian  along  certain 
tracks,  had  made  him  consider  for  a  vague  moment  the 
correctness  of  calling  so  immediately  upon  Clytie  ;  but 
the  directness  and  simplicity  of  his  nature  disregarded 
it.  It  was  only  natural  that  Clytie  should  like  to  know 
how  his  burned  hand  was  faring. 

He  found  the  girls  busily  painting,  Winifred  at  the 
side,  with  her  basket  of  flowers  near  her,  Clytie  stand- 
ing at  her  easel,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  her  back  to 
the  door,  her  face  turned  half  round  to  see  who  would 
enter  in  response  to  her  call. 

On  the  floor  by  the  fireside  sprawled  Jack,  the  model, 
eating  an  orange.  His  face  was  still  dirty,  his  curly 
hair  matted.  Winifred  had  pathetically  besought  Clytie 
to  have  him  washed.  Why  should  his  poor  little  face  be 
all  over  dirt  ? 

"  Because  it  could  not  exist  without  it,"  Clytie  had 
answered.  "  It  was  so  before  he  was  born." 

Winifred  had  given  her  one  of  her  appealing  looks 
from  swimming  brown  eyes,  and  Clytie,  remorseful, 
had  run  impulsively  up  and  caressed  and  kissed  her. 
But  she  had  not  washed  Jack's  face.  He  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  looked  defiantly,  like  a  young  animal,  at 
Kent  when  he  entered. 

The  ground-glass  roof,  the  white  walls  scored  over 
with  Clytie's  fantasies,  and  the  bright  red  curtain  at  the 
back  behind  the  stove  gave  a  singular  setting  to  the 
picture. 

Clytie's  eyes  brightened.  She  threw  a  cloth  over  the 
picture  she  was  engaged  on. 

"  Hotf  good  of  you  to  come — and  the  hand  ? " 

"  A  trifle.  It  will  be  quite  well  in  a  few  days ;  I 
thought  you  would  not  mind  my  coming  to  tell  you  how 
4 


4<>  AT   THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

your  doctoring  had  succeeded.  I  am  keeping  it  in  a 
sling — so  ;  otherwise  I  should  be  always  trying  to  use 
it.  You  are  none  the  worse,  Miss  Davenant  ?  " 

"  I  ?    Why  should  I  ? " 

"  Oh,  nerves,  shock,  headache — and  all  that.  My 
mother,  I  know,  would  have  been  upset  for  a  week." 

Clytie  laughed  ;  a  gay  little  laugh.  She  pierced 
through  the  words  to  the  simplicity  that  lay  behind 
them. 

"  I  have  never  cultivated  nerves,  Mr.  Kent.  They 
sadly  interfere  with  practical  life.  How  do  you  think 
Miss  Marchpane  and  I  would  get  on  with  this  sort  of 
thing " — and  she  nodded  towards  Jack — "  if  we  had 
nerves  ?  Winifred,  this  is  Mr.  Kent,  who  put  out  my 
fire  last  night.  Miss  Marchpane  and  I  share  the  studio 
together,  you  know." 

"  You  work  on  very  different  lines,"  said  Kent  after 
a  while,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  so  as  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Winifred's  tiny  canvas.  "  What  a  strange  thing 
temperament  is !  I  suppose  neither  of  you  does  land- 
scape." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Winifred.  Dainty  little  bits  of  meadow 
and  stream.  I  can't;  I  always  want  to  put  legs  and  arms 
to  my  trees,  and  make  the  branches  twist  and  writhe 
about,  like  Gustave  Dore"  in  the  '  Wandering  Jew.'  " 

"  You  scarcely  look  like  a  painter  of  the  weird,"  said 
Kent. 

"  You  think  I  have  not  enough  strength  of  imagina- 
tion ?" 

"You  have  too  much  strength  of  mind,"  returned 
Kent  judiciously.  "  You  hanker  too  much  after  the  real. 
I  can  only  judge,"  he  hastily  added  by  way  of  explana- 
tion, "  by  what  I  can  see  of  your  work  around  me." 

"  You  will  get  into  difficulties,"  said  Clytie,  laughing. 
"  One  moment  you  accuse  me  of  nerves,  and  the  next  of 
strong-mindedness.  Which  is  right,  Winnie  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  telling  too  much  or  too  little  if  I  were 
to  say,"  replied  Winifred.  "  Mr.  Kent  will  have  to  judge 
for  himself.  We  had  better  show  him  something  to 
go  by." 

They  turned  to  an  exhibition  of  Clytie's  paintings  ; 
small  stacks  of  canvases  were  ranged  on  the  floor,  along 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  47 

the  walls  ;  here  and  there  one  hanging  or  standing  on  a 
table  or  on  an  easel.  Clytie  stood  by  in  her  nonchalant, 
professional  way,  giving  a  word  or  two  of  necessary  ex- 
planation as  Winifred  placed  them  one  by  one  upon  an 
easel  for  Kent's  inspection.  Painters,  sculptors,  musi- 
cians and  actors  have  a  moral  advantage  over  poets  and 
novelists,  in  that  they  are  not  ashamed  of  their  work. 
An  artist  shows  you  his  picture  frankly  and  hopes  you 
will  like  it ;  if  a  poet  reads  you  a  sonnet,  he  has  an  all- 
devouring  dread  lest  you  may  deem  him  a  prig.  And 
the  strange  part  of  it  is  that  you  do  ;  whereas  you  think 
the  painter  rather  a  good  fellow.  A  little  problem  in 
sociological  aesthetics. 

As  Kent  looked  at  the  pictures  he  lost  his  sense  of 
Clytie's  Agatha-like  behaviour  of  the  previous  evening. 
He  forgot  even  to  pity  her.  He  expressed  genuine 
admiration  for  her  work,  interspersing  his  remarks  with 
outspoken  criticism  which  Clytie  recognised  as  deeper 
than  that  of  the  mere  virtuoso.  It  was  qualified,  too,  by 
the  supreme  attribute  of  simple  common  sense.  He 
judged  the  pictures  on  their  merits  ;  he  judged  Clytie 
as  a  woman  of  genius,  strong  mind,  out  of  the  ordinary 
run  of  women.  The  inner  promptings  and  cravings 
that  had  thus  found  artistic  expression  it  was  beyond 
his  philosophy  to  suspect.  Nor  did  Clytie  think  of  en- 
lightening him. 

"  I  like  your  realism,"  he  said.  "  It  is  straightfor- 
ward. There's  always  a  great  danger  of  this  sort  of 
thing  degenerating  into  morbidness.  But  if  you  can 
keep  it  true,  it's  healthy  ;  it  means  sober,  honest  work, 
and  not  an  intermittent  fever.  I  see  you  work  off  your 
superfluous  energy  on  the  walls." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  them,"  cried  Clytie  somewhat  shame- 
facedly. "  You  must  not  look  at  them,  please.  They 
are  not  part  of  the  show.  Miss  Marchpane  gets  tired  of 
flowers  and  peach-bloom,  and  sometimes " 

"  Clytie  !  "   cried  Winifred  reproachfully. 

Clytie  laughed  ;  and  Kent  with  her.  The  light  jest 
brought  them  nearer  together. 

"  No  ;  I  do  that  when  I  feel  wicked,"  said  Clytie. 
"  I  paint  a  nice,  correct  little  picture  for  the  nice, 
correct  people  who  are  going  to  buy  it,  and  then  I 


48  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

grow  angry  with  them  and  feel  I  should  like  to  shock 
them,  take  the  stiffening  out  of  them,  reduce  them 
to  elemental  bits  of  humanity.  Look  at  this  group 
of  street  urchins.  I  am  doing  that  on  order  for  my 
dealer.  Here  is  Jack — look  at  him  now  staring  into 
the  stove  with  the  unreasoning  content  of  a  young  dog. 
Doesn't  he  seem  nice  and  conventional  in  the  picture  ? 
You  can  hear  the  young  lady  of  the  house  saying  to  the 
curate,  '  Aren't  these  little  street  children  too  delight- 
ful ? '  Now  if  they  were  shown  the  real  Jack,  it  would 
give  them  to  think,  as  the  French  say — and  they  hate 
doing  that.  This  is  my  idea  of  the  real  Jack." 

She  whisked  the  cloth  off  the  easel  and  showed  Kent 
the  charcoal  Jbauche  of  her  own  particular  study  of  the 
urchin. 

She  had  worked  rapidly  that  day,  with  the  feverishness 
that  Kent  deprecated.  Whether  she  would  convert  the 
sketch  into  a  finished  picture  she  did  not  know.  She 
had  desired  to  fix  the  haunting  impression  of  Jack's 
possible  history. 

Kent  was  somewhat  startled  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
presentation.  There  was  the  boy,  refined,  delicate  in 
feature,  great-eyed,  curly-haired,  but  repulsive  with 
cruelty  and  animalism  ;  in  a  degraded  attitude,  head 
bent  forward,  knees  bent,  lips  parted  in  a  sff£er.  - 

"  He  does  not  look  like  that  now,"  said  Kent,  com- 
paring the  original  with  the  copy. 

"  Wait,"  said  Clytie.     Then  imperiously  to  the  urchin  : 

"  Jack,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

He  turned,  looked  up  at  her  shiftingly. 

"  Dunno." 

"  Weren't  you  thinking  of  the  nice  little  story  of  the 
cat  you  told  me  this  morning?" 

No  answer. 

"  It's  about  a  stray  cat  that  came  into  his  mother's 
house  half  dead,  you  know,  and  this  boy  was  so  kind  to 
it— like  a  dear  little  girl " 

"  Yer  lie  !  "  cried  the  boy,  starting  to  his  feet.  "  Oi 
told  yer  Oi  killed  'er.  I  lammed  her  bloomin'  'ed  open 
with  a  chopper.  I  'ates  cats  !  " 

"  Voilb  !  "  said  Clytie.  "  That's  the  real  Jack.  That's 
the  Jack  I'd  like  to  startle  Peckham  Rye  with." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  49 

And  then  turning  to  the  boy  : 

"  That  will  do  for  to-day,  Jack.  Here's  your  shilling  ; 
give  it  to  your  mother." 

"  Shan't,"  said  Jack. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must,"  said  Winifred  ;  "  look  how  hard 
your  poor  mother  has  to  work  to  keep  you,  Jack." 

"She's  bloomin'  well  got  ter,"  said  Jack.  "I  aint 
going  to  give  'er  no  money.  She  never  gives  me  none." 

"  But  your  mother  will  beat  you,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Wot  do  I  care  ?  " 

"  And  your  father,  you  sweet  boy  ?"  asked  Kent. 

"Aint  got  none." 

"Never  had  one?"  continued  Kent. 

"  No  ;  mother  aint  that  sort.     Blamed  glad." 

"  Here,  you'd  better  run  away,"  said  Clytie  hurriedly. 
"  Keep  your  shilling  and  make  yourself  as  ill  as  you  like 
with  it.  Come  the  day  after  to-morrow — Friday.  Can 
you  remember  ?  It's  unnecessary  to  request  you  not  to 
wash  between  then  and  now.  Go  on.  Good-bye.  Out 
you  get." 

The  boy  took  up  the  remains  of  his  cap  and  went, 
with  an  air  of  relief,  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  a  little  brute  !  "  said  Kent.  "  Why  don't  you 
try  to  reform  him — make  him  human  ?" 

"  He  is  human,"  cried  Clytie  with  some  warmth. 
"  That's  wrry  I  cultivate  him.  Delightfully  human ! 
Refreshing  !  As  for  reforming  him  " — with  a  shrug  of 
her  shoulders — "I  am  not  a  Sunday-school  teacher.  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  submerged  tenth  ;  let  the 
good  respectable  folks  who  have  submerged  them  raise 
them  with  their  polite  and  respectable  hands.  I  am  an 
artist — a  student  of  life — what  you  will.  Each  one  to 
his  trade.  Perhaps  when  I  have  got  what  I  want  out  of 
Jack  it  may  amuse  me  to  show  him  the  desirability  of 
not  '  lamming  cats'  bloomin'  'eds  open  with  a  chopper.' 
I  don't  know — I'm  not  altogether  devoid  of  moral  sense. 
Winifred's  tender  heart  may  be  touched,  and  between 
the  two  of  us  we  may  turn  him  out  a  mild-eyed  journey- 
man carpenter,  a  member  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  a  model 
of  all  the  virtues.  But  I  very  much  doubt  it.  He  has 
vice  in  his  blood.  But  perhaps  I  am  wounding  some  of 
your  susceptibilities,  Mr.  Kent  ?  You  may  be  a  social 


50  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

reformer,  and  keener  than  I  on  these  matters.  If  so, 
pardon  me.  We  artists  are  privileged,  you  know,  to 
view  life  from  our  own  standpoint." 

Kent  threw  up  his  hand  and  dropped  it — a  little  ges- 
ture of  deprecation.  He,  too,  had  large  views  on 
humanity  and  its  needs.  He  was  even  then  sacrificing 
comfort,  fame,  ease,  such  as  other  men  understand 
them,  so  as  to  serve  it.  But  it  was  according  to  his  own 
capabilities.  It  was  a  darling  scientific  work,  that  on 
the  most  modest  computation  would  take  him  twenty 
years  to  complete — an  unthankful  task  ;  his  name  to  be 
remembered  with  reverential  gratitude  by  some  half 
dozen  workers,  to  perish  unheard  of  by  the  remaining 
millions  of  mankind.  But  these  half  dozen  would  use 
the  result  of  his  life's  energies  to  the  advancement  of 
human  prosperity,  and  that  thought  glowed  within 
Kent's  heart.  Still  a  man  has  not  time  for  all  things. 
He  honestly  disclaimed  pretensions  to  being  a  social 
reformer.  He  was  also  artistically  sympathetic  enough 
to  appreciate  Clytie's  attitude  as  regards  Jack.  He  was 
nearer  to  her  in  spirit  than  Winifred,  who  was  pained  at 
Clytie's  speech.  She  would  have  cried  out  with  the 
sharpness  of  the  pain  had  it  not  been  for  Kent's  pres- 
ence. And  she  would  have  been  revolted  at  the  cynical 
callousness  had  it  not  been  for  the  blind  adoration  with 
which  she  bowed  before  Clytie.  Whatever  Clytie  did 
was  right,  she  told  herself,  and  she  was  a  poor  little 
body  who  could  not  understand  these  things.  But  her 
heart  bled  for  Jack,  and  she  wondered  why  Clytie's  did 
not  bleed  also. 

"  I  spoke  idly,"  said  Kent.  "  I  am  sorry.  If  all 
artists  set  about  reforming  their  models,  their  hands 
would  be  too  full  for  art.  But  he  is  a  little  brute  all 
the  same,  and,  as  you  say,  Peckham  Rye  would  be 
startled  by  him.  But  why  do  you  want  to  shock 
Philistia?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  live  in  it,  be  of  it,  and  worship  at 
comfortably  timed  intervals  in  its  correctly  appointed 
temple  of  Dagon  ?" 

"  No,"  laughed  Kent.  "  They  wouldn't  have  me  in  it. 
I  think  they  could  stand  less  of  me  than  I  of  them. 
They  are  God's  creatures  after  all,  you  know.  If  you 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  S1 

prick  them,  they  bleed — and  so  forth.  If  they  admire 
your  little  pictures,  which  I  too  admire  vastly,  there  must 
be  some  saving  grace  in  the  Philistines." 

Clytie  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  But  why  should  I  be  obliged  to  paint  in  their  way, 
and  not  in  my  way  ?  That  is  what  irritates  me." 

"  Have  you  tried  them  with  your  way,  as  you  call  it  ? " 

Even  Winifred  could  scarcely  forbear  flashing  at  Clytie 
a  little  smile  of  tender  malice. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  she  whispered  softly,  and  the 
two  broke  into  unconstrained  laughter. 

"Winifred  is  quoting,  Mr.  Kent.  It  was  an  elderly 
gentleman,  stout,  florid,  lots  of  watch-chain — one  of  my 
patrons.  He  had  bought  one  of  my  pictures  at  the  deal- 
er's, and  came  for  another.  Burrowes  showed  him  one 
of  my  own  own  things.  Winifred  and  I  happened  to  be 
at  the  back  of  the  shop  at  the  time.  The  old  gentleman 
put  on  his  spectacles,  looked  at  the  picture,  gave  such  a 
jump,  held  it  in  the  light,  and  then  gasped  out  :  'God 
bless  my  soul,  Burrowes,  has  the  young  woman  taken  to 
drink  ? '  " 

"  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  Winnie 
had  not  held  me  back.  As  it  was,  Burrowes  whispered  to 
him  that  the  artist -was  overhearing  the  conversation. 
'  Well,  it  will  do  her  good,'  says  the  old  gentleman, 
and  he  went  out  storming.  Then  Burrowes  came  to  me 
and  complained  that  I  had  lost  him  a  customer.  He 
has  the  soul  of  a  pork-butcher,  that  man  !  " 

Then  turning  to  Kent,  her  cheeks  still  flushed  with 
anecdotal  animation: 

"  That's  how  it  is,  you  see  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Kent,  "  perhaps  you  have  reason  to  owe 
Philistia  a  grudge.  I  haven't.  If  it  shuts  its  respect- 
able doors  on  me,  I  shrug  my  shoulders  and  set  up  my 
wigwam  outside,  where  I  can  smoke  my  pipe  in  peace. 
It  is  better  not  to  care  for  the  world — or  anything,  for 
that  matter,  if  one  has  work  to  do.  One's  keenness  on 
life  ought  to  leave  one  no  time  for  hating  one's  fellow- 
creatures." 

Winifred  looked  at  Clytie,  expecting  to  see  her  resent 
the  implied  rebuke.  But  Clytie  only  laughed  softly  to 


52  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

herself,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  looking  at  her  finger 
tips. 

"  You  are  by  way  of  being  a  tonic,  Mr.  Kent,"  she 
said,  without  looking  at  him. 

Kent  was  disconcerted,  could  not  find  a  reply.  He 
stroked  his  tawny  beard  and  moustache  with  his  free 
hand,  and  looked  at  her  somewhat  puzzled.  He  had 
uttered  his  own  robust  faith,  and  she  had  seized  a 
personal  reference  with  which  she  appeared  not  dis- 
pleased. 

At  last  he  said  : 

"  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  you  are  cynical,  Miss 
Davenant.  But  you  are  a  little  vindictive.  I,  too,  often 
think  of  that  passage  in  '  Sartor  Resartus '  where 
Carlyle  strips  the  clothes  off  the  courtiers  at  St.  James's 
and  leaves  them  bare,  with  their  bowings  and  scrapings 
— do  you  remember  ?  Well,  it  would  be  a  very  good 
thing  for  them.  You  would  come  down  to  pure 
humanity  and  find  it  really  a  very  lovable,  great-hearted 
thing  after  all." 

"  Then,  for  goodness*  sake,  let  us  begin  to  strip  the 
clothes  off  them  at  once  !  "  cried  Clytie,  changing  her  atti- 
tude, with  her  usual  suddenness.  "  That's  what  I  want 
to  do.  I  want  real  men,  real  women  ;  that's  why  I  take 
human  nature  in  the  rough  " — making  a  comprehensive 
sweep  with  her  hand  round  the  studio.  "  The  clothes 
these  things  wear  don't  matter  ;  you  can  see  the  passions 
working  through  the  rents  and  tears." 

"  Umph  !  "  said  Kent.  "  You  may  see  something  that 
will  frighten  you  one  of  these  days.  There's  plenty  of 
good  in  humanity,  but  there's  plenty  of  bad.  You  had 
better  get  hold  of  what  is  good  first.  It  will  give  you 
a  foundation." 

Shortly  afterwards  Kent  took  his  leave.  He  had  paid 
a  longer  visit  than  he  had  anticipated.  He  found  him- 
self pitying  Clytie  again  upon  new,  less  definable 
grounds.  He  was  much  struck  by  her  work,  her  frank- 
ness, her  independence.  She  was  a  novelty  to  him, 
different  from  the  few  other  women  he  knew.  She 
seemed  to  have  everything  calculated  to  make  a  woman 
happy  and  her  life  full,  and  yet  he  was  sorry  for  her. 
Why,  he  could  not  tell. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  53 

He  went  up  to  his  attics,  and  prepared  to  spend  his 
usual  working  evening.  Afterwards,  towards  half-past 
eleven,  he  might  walk  across  to  South  Kensington.  He 
took  from  one  of  the  cupboards  beneath  the  dresser- 
table  plates,  knife  and  fork,  a  half-finished  tin  of  sar- 
dines, bread  and  butter.  This,  together  with  a  bottle 
of  beer,  formed  his  frugal  evening  meal.  His  midday 
dinner  he  took  at  an  Italian  restaurant  near  the  Museum. 
He  ate  standing,  walking  about  his  room  between  the 
mouthfuls,  selecting  the  books  he  would  require  for  his 
work,  and  pausing  now  and  then  over  an  idly  opened 
volume.  His  meal  finished,  he  collected  the  soiled 
utensils  and  stacked  them  on  the  landing  outside  his 
door  for  Mrs.  Gurkins  to  remove,  wash,  and  return  to 
the  same  place  in  the  morning.  Then  he  lit  his  pipe, 
and  settled  down  to  his  long  evening's  work. 

Thoughts  of  burned  hand,  new-found  friends,  occu- 
pied him  not.  The  crisp  whisk  of  the  leaves  of  his  ref- 
erence-books, the  rapid  whirr  of  his  quill  pen,  the  occa- 
sional bubble  of  his  green-shaded  reading-lamp,  were 
the  only  signs  of  external  life  of  which  he  was  conscious. 
The  rest  of  the  bare-floored  room,  with  its  oddly  covered 
walls,  was  deep  in  shadow.  But  the  light  shone  in  a  circle 
upon  the  pile  of  books  and  papers  on  which  he  was 
engaged,  and  lit  up  strongly  his  honest,  resolute  face,  with 
its  intent  gray  eyes  and  its  kindly  mouth  half  hidden  in 
the  moustache  and  beard.  Kent  was  happy.  The  darling 
work,  that  served  him  as  mistress,  religion,  ambition — 
over  which  he  had  never  known  a  heartache — held  him 
in  its  enchantment.  And  the  wet  slips  grew  in  number 
around  him. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  You  are  going  to  spend  a  dismal  evening,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Farquharson,  with  a  sigh. 

They  were  sitting  on  either  side  of  the  drawing-room 
fire,  awaiting  dinner  guests. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Clytie. 

"  Oh,  the  crowd  that's  coming — fossilised  London, 
with  figures  like  amphoras  and  faces  like  old  coins.  It's 
the  principle  of  assimilation,  I  suppose.  And  they'll 
talk  as  if  there  were  nothing  new  under  the  sun." 

"  There  isn't  much." 

"  Isn't  there?  Wait  till  you  have  lived  a  little  longer. 
At  any  rate  there  are  murders  and  divorces  and  new 
pictures  and  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Why  people  choose  to  live  a  couple  of  thousand  years 
before  their  time  I  can't  make  out.  You'll  see.  They'll 
all  look  as  if  they  had  been  excavated — except  George, 
and  he  looks  as  if  they  had  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
bury  him.  Thank  goodness,  they  have  all  got  weak 
digestions  and  don't  dine  out  much,  or  else  we  should 
have  them  here  every  week." 

"  But  the  wives  are  coming  too,"  said  Clytie  by  way 
of  consolation. 

"  Poor  things  !  They  all  look  weary  with  many  proof- 
sheets  crammed  with  circumflexes  over  impossible  let- 
ters, and  wrong-headed  pictures  of  birds  and  beasts. 
All  archaeologists  are  not  like  George,  you  know." 

"  But  then  no  one  is  like  George." 

"  That's  a  mercy,"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson  settling  her- 
self with  much  comfort  among  the  cushions  of  her  chair. 
"  Don't  you  get  married,  my  dear  ;  stay  independent. 
Do  you  know,  one  of  the  beings  is  going  to  read  a  paper. 
Pity  me." 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  am  to  be  pitied  too,"  remarked 
Clytie. 

54 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  55 

"  Ah  !  but  you  are  young  and  can  make  fun  out  of 
them.  I  can't." 

The  occasion  was  a  meeting  of  Mr.  Farquharson's 
archaeological  set.  The  inner  circle  dined  at  each  other's 
houses  in  turn  once  a  month,  and  the  outer  circle  came  in 
later,  for  the  "  conversazione,"as  Mrs.  Farquharson  called 
it,  with  a  little  shudder.  A  paper  was  usually  read,  fol- 
lowed by  a  discussion,  from  which  the  more  flippant 
seceded  and  gossipped  casually  in  odd  corners.  Clytie 
had  never  been  to  one  of  these  strangely  homogeneous 
reunions.  The  people  she  generally  met  at  her  friends' 
house  were  miscellaneous,  and  the  talk  danced  about 
upon  all  subjects  under  heaven,  wreathed  in  blue  curls 
of  cigarette  smoke.  Mrs.  Farquharson  had  begged  her 
to  come  and  support  her — "  to  strike  a  note  of  colour 
among  the  gray  ruins."  Clytie  looked  forward  to  the 
incongruous  formalism  of  the  evening  with  an  anticipa- 
tion of  amusement. 

She  hinted  as  much  to  Mf.  Farquharson  when  he 
came  into  the  drawing-room.  He  laughed,  bowed  his 
long,  ungainly  figure,  hoped  that  Miss  Davenant  had 
come  to  be  instructed.  Professor  Petherick  was  to  read 
a  paper  on  an  aureus  of  Geta  of  the  type  Cohen  No.  n, — 
Clytie  and  her  hostess  communed  with  each  other 
dumbly, — and  many  rare  coins  were  to  be  exhibited.  He 
trusted  that  Miss  Davenant  would  be  appreciative  and 
on  her  best  behaviour.  Numismatics  was  not  a  subject 
that  lent  itself  to  flippancy. 

"  My  wife  can  turn  the  house  into  a  bear-garden  every 
Sunday  evening,  more  shame  to  her,  though  she  does 
sit  and  smile  in  her  superior  way.  But  twice  a  year  I 
assert  my  individuality  and  this  house  becomes  sober 
and  respectable.  So  no  cigarettes  to-night,  Miss  Daven- 
ant. When  I  put  on  these  dress-clothes  I  am  rigid." 

"  You  look  very  nice,"  said  Clytie. 

He  looked  down  at  himself  complacently,  accepting 
the  flattery ;  such  is  man.  He  always  insisted  upon 
wearing  very  square-toed  kid  boots,  a  high  buttoned 
waistcoat  with  a  chain  made  of  old  coins  banded  across 
it,  a  deep  velvet  collar  to  his  dress-coat,  and  a  shirt- 
collar,  with  two  long  ends  that  served  as  a  tie,  beneath 
his  beard. 


56  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I  like  him  better  in  his  velvet  jacket,"  said  Mrs. 
Farquharson.  "  Go  and  put  it  on,  George." 

But  George  shook  his  head  sadly.  He  must  be  properly 
attired  to  discuss  an  aureus  of  Geta. 

The  guests  arrived,  seven  in  number,  and  they  went 
down  to  the  dining-room.  Clytie  sat  between  Professor 
Petherick,  a  little  rosy  man  with  a  bald  head  and  gas- 
tronomic appreciation,  and  a  young  clergyman  who  had 
taken  her  in  to  dinner.  She  had  been  for  so  long  a  time 
outside  Church  influences  that  a  strange  little  Durdle- 
ham  qualm  come  over  her.  He  looked  stern,  over- 
worked, dreadfully  in  earnest,  she  thought,  not  likely  to 
sympathise  with  the  Thelemite  joyousness  of  life  of  the 
house  whose  motto  was,  "fays  ce  que  vouldras."  He 
was  the  only  bachelor  among  the  guests.  The  six  others, 
including  the  professor,  consisted  of  three  married  couples, 
middle-aged,  respectable.  Mr.  Vansittart  was  a  great 
Egyptologist.  It  was  of  his  wife,  a  faded,  weary-looking 
woman,  that  Mrs.  Farquharson  had  so  pathetically  spoken 
with  reference  to  the  correction  of  proof-sheets.  Mrs. 
Petherick  was  literary,  fond  of  lions.  Her  talk  was  a 
catalogue  raisonnt  Q{  her  menagerie.  Mr.  Farquharson 
listened  politely  and  went  on  with  his  dinner.  The 
remaining  couple  were  the  Chowders,  retired  Anglo- 
Indians,  who  found  only  late  in  life  an  opportunity  of 
gratifying  their  ruling  passions — on  her  part  an  undis- 
turbed warm  bath  of  domesticity  ;  on  his,  archaeological 
dilettanteism.  She  was  florid  and  buxom  ;  he  bronzed 
and  shrivelled.  Both  talked  on  their  pet  subjects.  The 
Rev.  Victor  Treherne  was  a  keen  numismatist.  "  A 
recognised  authority,"  Farquharson  had  whispered  to 
Clytie.  "Will  give  Petherick  beans  if  he  goes  wrong." 

Clytie  knew  nothing  of  numismatics.  She  did  not 
know  the  difference  between  a  moidur  and  a  bezant,  nor 
did  she  seek  enlightenment  from  her  neighbour.  She 
questioned  him  as  to  his  environment — North  London,  a 
large  parish,  chiefly  poor.  The  conversation  languished, 
then  it  brightened  up  through  common  effort.  Each 
had  a  King  Charles  the  First's  head  to  keep  in  the  back- 
ground, feeling  it  to  be  distasteful  to  the  other.  Tre- 
herne had  left  his  parish  behind,  and  had  brought  no 
other  interests  with  him  save  those  circling  round  the 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  57 

famous  aureus,  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to 
Clytie,  who,  for  her  part,  had  been  cautioned  to  act  as 
the  superior  Ki-Pi-Yu,  friend  of  Confucius,  did  on  cer- 
tain occasions — roll  her  principles  up  and  keep  them  in 
her  breast.  Each,  too,  divined  dimly  the  other's  per- 
sonality, and  they  talked  eagerly,  seeking  to  like  and 
interest  one  another  through  a  current  of  mutual 
antipathy. 

The  professor  and  Mrs.  Farquharson  were  talking  less 
unreservedly  on  the  question  of  female  disabilities.  He 
had  theories  on  the  sacredness  of  woman's  mission. 
Mrs.  Farquharson's  views  were  more  materialistic.  Her 
early  training  had  disabused  her  of  the  oak  and  ivy  illu- 
sion, which  the  professor  still  entertained. 

"  No,  it's  no  use,  professor,"  she  said.  "A  man  has 
got  to  go  his  way  and  a  woman  hers.  If  their  ways  lie 
together,  so  much  the  better — they  can  help  each  other  ; 
if  they  lie  apart,  so  much  the  worse.  Besides,  I  cannot 
conceive  anything  more  irritating  to  a  man  than  to  be 
followed  all  about  by  his  wife — like  a  dog.  No  wonder 
some  men  beat  their  wives." 

Treherne  had  caught  the  speech.     He  turned  to  Clytie. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  ? " 

"  Of  course.  Mrs.  Farquharson  and  I  are  sworn 
sisters.  We  hold  advanced  views  concerning  ourselves. 
I  hope  you  don't  think  we  have  a  mission  !  Have  you 
ever  thought  how  distressing  it  is  to  try  to  live  up  to 
a  false  ideal,  and  somebody  else's  into  the  bargain  ?  " 

"  We  all  have  to  live  up  to  an  ideal.  This  one  may  be 
false  ;  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate  it  is  a  high  one,  and 

^         worth  aiming  at." 
"That  is  Jesuitical.     What  is  to  become  of  a  woman's 
self-respect  when  she  knows  all  the  time  she  is  a  hum- 
bug, although  a  sublime  one  ?  " 

"  By  seeking  to  inspire  others  with  faith  in  her  she 
will  at  length  acquire  faith  in  herself." 

"  Don't  you  think  that's  rather  vicious  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  The  same  principle  obtains  in  my 
own  calling.  Many  a  man  enters  the  Church  who  is  not 
really  fit  for  it.  But  the  professional  effort  he  has  to 
make  to  raise  others  in  most  cases  raises  himself." 

"  That  may  be  quite  true,"  said  Clytie,  "  but  it  does 


58  AT   THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

not  prove  the  principle  to  be  right.  Besides,  the  cases 
are  different.  You  undertake,  when  you  enter  the 
Church,  to  do  certain  things.  Now  when  a  woman 
enters  the  world  she  does  not  undertake  to  do  anything, 
any  more  than  a  man  does.  They  both  clamour  to 
assert  themselves  as  human  beings.  They  may  go  about 
it  in  different  ways, — it  is  merely  the  difference  of  sex, — 
but  their  ultimate  end  is  the  same." 

"  And  what  is  this  ?  " 

"  To  get  as  much  out  of  life  as  possible." 

"  That's  scarcely  orthodox." 

The  accompanying  smile  was  a  touch  of  the  curb  on 
Clytie.  She  paused.  There  was  an  interval  of  dining. 
Then  she  turned  to  reply  to  a  remark  of  the  professor. 
Mrs.  Farquharson,  who  hitherto  had  steered  skilfully 
through  the  shoals  of  antiquity,  was  run  aground  by 
Colonel  Chowder.  Clytie  was  astonished  to  hear  her 
friend  talking  learnedly  of  coins  and  Latin  inscriptions. 
She  ran  discursively  over  the  points  of  George's  collec- 
tion, toning  her  speech  with  a  light  counterpoint  of 
mockery,  so  that  its  echo  should  reach  Clytie's  ears. 
Mrs.  Chowder  bubbled  domesticity  over  the  Egyptolo- 
gist ;  spoke  of  her  sons,  the  difficulty  of  army  examina- 
tions. She  was  bent  upon  their  getting  into  the  service, 
also  upon  their  marrying  young.  The  reconciliation  of 
these  incongruities  was  the  problem  offered  for  Mr. 
Vansittart's  solution. 

Clytie  again  turned  to  Mr.  Treherne. 

"  Do  you  often  come  here  ?  I  am  almost  of  the  house 
and  I  have  never  met  you." 

"  Once  before,  on  a  similar  occasion — almost  the  same 
circle.  A  common  hobby  brings  the  most  divergent 
people  together." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  and  I  have  not  got  one,"  said  Clytie, 
flashing  a  malicious  glance  at  him. 

"  Perhaps  we  have.     What  do  you  mostly  do  ?  " 

"  Paint — for  my  living." 

"  An  artist  !     What  is  your  line  ?  " 

"  Anything  human — they  call  it  genre — street  life — 
the  very  poor." 

"  The  poor  ?  Then  we  have  a  common  hobby  after 
all ! " 


AT   THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  59 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Clytie.  "  But  I  am  afraid  we  ride 
it  in  opposite  directions." 

"  Do  you  know  much  of  their  lives — go  among 
them  ? " 

"  Not  much  ;  I  see  them  only  externally,  from  an 
artist's  point  of  view.  I  should  like  to  see  deeper." 

A  light  burned  for  a  moment  in  the  young  clergyman's 
gray  eyes. 

"  Would  you  care  for  work  among  them  ?  " 

"  As  a  student,  perhaps  ;  as  a  reformer,  no  !  " 

"  One  generally  leads  to  the  other." 

"  In  that  case  I'll  not  run  the  risk,"  she  replied 
laughing. 

An  hour  later  the  drawing-room  was  filled  with  the 
evening  guests,  mostly  men.  Women  archaeologists  are 
scarce.  The  sentiment  with  which  they  inwrap  relics 
of  the  past  harms  the  pure  scientific  spirit  of  inquiry. 
Thus  Mr.  Farquharson  to  Clytie,  briefly  explanative. 
She  laughed,  reminded  him  how  lately  in  a  sentimental 
mood  he  had  accused  women  of  lack  of  imagination  ; 
she  reproached  him  for  inconsistency. 

"  Inconsistency  is  a  principle  of  the  art  of  living,"  he 
replied  epigrammatically,  moving  away. 

The  men  stood  in  groups  about  the  room  chatting  on 
personalities, examining  the  display  of  coin-cases  arranged 
here  and  there  upon  the  tables,  each  under  the  soothing 
light  of  a  shaded  lamp.  The  professor  stood  by  himself 
on  the  hearthrug,  hemming  irritably,  anxious  to  read  his 
paper.  The  talk  was  subdued,  attitudes  formal,  a  con- 
trast to  the  ordinary  easy  abandonment  of  that  drawing- 
room.  The  men  were  of  a  different  type,  mostly  elderly, 
sedate.  Mrs.  Farquharson  rested  for  a  moment  from 
her  exertions  as  hostess  by  Clytie's  side. 

"  Now  for  a  minute's  peace.  I  wish  the  men  would 
smoke,  they  all  look  so  woebegone  ;  but  George  says 
they  mustn't.  Now,  then,  my  dear,  I  haven't  seen  you 
for  ages,  except  for  those  five  minutes  before  dinner  ; 
what  have  you  been  doing  lately  ?  " 

"  Nothing  much — working.  Oh  !  yes,  I  have,  though. 
I  have  found  a  new  chum." 

"  What  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  she,  it's  a  he." 


60  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

<l  Where  does  he  come  from  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son,  arching  her  eyebrows. 

"  From  the  skies,  apparently :  in  the  first  case  to  put 
out  a  fire  in  my  room — he  lives  over  me  in  the  attics " 

"Clyde  !  You  must  be  careful.  Who  is  he  ?  What's 
his  name  ?  " 

"  Caroline,"  said  her  husband's  deep  voice  behind  her 
chair,  "  I  don't  think  you  know  Mr.  Kent." 

Clytie  started  round  violently  at  the  shock  of  the 
coincidence.  Kent  was  standing  by  her  side,  looking 
odd,  changed,  a  bit  Philistine  in  his  evening  dress.  He 
wore  a  glove  over  his  burned  hand. 

They  talked,  explained  their  meeting.  He  had  had  a 
numismatic  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Farquharson  for  a 
long  time  past.  Had  received  his  invitation  at  the 
Museum,  his  private  address  not  being  known  to  his  host. 
Clytie  described  her  own  privileged  position  in  the  house- 
hold, speaking  frankly,  vivaciously.  She  felt  a  little 
thrill  of  pleasure  at  seeing  him  there.  He  seemed,  more 
than  the  other  guests,  in  harmony  with  the  traditions  of 
the  house.  They  had  not  time  for  much  conversation, 
social  exigencies  separating  them.  Besides,  a  general 
buzz  and  a  subsiding  into  chairs  or  restful  attitudes 
sounded  the  warning  that  Professor  Petherick  was  about 
to  read  his  paper. 

He  described  the  coin  that  had  come  into  his  posses- 
sion,— previously  it  had  been  passed  round  for  the 
inspection  of  the  guests, — claiming  it  to  be  a  finer  speci- 
men than  the  one  in  the  Caylus  collection.  The  figure 
of  Castor  beside  his  horse,  without  the  pileus,  on  the 
reverse,  he  argued  was  a  portrait  of  the  unfortunate 
young  co-emperor.  The  legend  on  the  obverse  pro- 
claimed that  it  was  a  coin  of  Geta.  He  took  this  as  the 
text  for  a  learned  disquisition  upon  the  aureus,  tracing 
its  origin,  the  variations  in  its  weight,  to  the  time  of 
Justinian,  who  fixed  it  as  a  limit  stake  for  a  throw  of  the 
dice.  He  quoted  Pitiscus,  Eckhel,  many  learned  author- 
ities. He  read  in  a  bland,  easy  tone,  confident  of  his 
facts  and  his  deductions. 

Clytie  felt  relieved  when  he  had  finished.  Across  the 
room  she  had  now  and  then  caught  Kent's  eye,  which 
had  a  humourous  twinkle  in  it.  She,  who  an  hour  before 


AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA.  6 1 

had  been  scoffing  at  the  dry-as-dust  nature  of  numis- 
matics as  a  pursuit,  now  felt  a  consciousness  of  inferior- 
ity, of  being  relegated  to  the  tribe  feminine,  who  are  not 
expected  to  care  for  intellectual  matters.  She  nourished 
a  seed  of  resentment  against  Kent  and  all  archaeologists. 
But  when  the  usual  discussion  on  the  paper  began  she 
set  an  example  of  interest  in  it  to  Mr.  Vansittart,  who 
had  come  over  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  Really,  she 
was  curious  to  see  what  part  Kent  would  take  in  the 
discussion.  He  seemed  to  find  many  acquaintances  in 
the  room,  and  an  appreciative  welcome  from  each.  She 
experienced  a  strange  sense  of  satisfaction  at  the  dis- 
pelling of  an  unformulated  apprehension  lest  he  might  be 
unknown,  insignificant.  She  had  seen  him  several  times 
since  his  visit  to  the  studio  ;  once  they  had  met  at  Sloane 
Square  station  and  had  walked  home  together.  The 
acquaintance  was  ripening  into  friendliness.  Now  she 
was  interested  at  seeing  him  in  a  new  environment.  Our 
conception  of  people  changes  very  much  according  to 
the  conditions  with  which  we  associate  them.  But  Kent 
in  the  drawing-room,  despite  his  unfamiliar  attire,  seemed 
much  the  same  as  Kent  in  the  studio,  his  manner  towards 
the  men  she  saw  him  talking  with  much  the  same  as  his 
manner  towards  her.  Presently  he  rose,  broke  into  the 
discussion.  The  principal  participators  listened  with 
apparent  respect  to  his  remarks,  few  in  number,  but  apt. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Kent  is  an  authority,"  said  the  professor, 
surrendering  a  particular  point  with  a  certain  grace. 

The  little  tribute  fell  gratefully  on  Clytie's  ears.  Sud- 
denly she  became  conscious  that  her  pleasure  was  greater 
than  the  occasion  warranted.  She  turned  round  quickly 
to  Mr.  Vansittart,  who  was  taking  but  mild  interest  in 
the  affair,  and  somewhat  abruptly  opened  a  conversation. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Treherne  joined  them  soon  afterwards, 
asking  permission  to  introduce  a  friend.  Thus  it  came 
about  that  Clytie  had  a  small  group  around  her,  and  her 
interest  in  Kent's  proceedings  was  checked  for  a  time. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Farquharson  had  threaded  her  way 
through  the  crowd  of  black  coats,  and  taken  Kent  off 
with  her  to  an  undisturbed  corner.  She  was  curious  to 
examine  Clytie's  new  "  chum." 

"  So  you  live  in  the  same  house  as  Clytie  Davenant. 
5 


62  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

You  rescued  her  from  the  flames,  didn't  you  ?  She  told 
me  something  about  it.  What  happened,  exactly  ?  " 

Kent  sketched  briefly  the  little  scene  with  the  blazing 
curtains,  and  mentioned  his  visit  next  day  and  his 
subsequent  meetings  with  Clytie.  He  politely  expressed 
his  agreeable  surprise  at  meeting  her  to-night. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  her  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Farquharson  confidentially.  "  I  dare  say  it's  an  odd 
question,  but  if  you  will  come  and  see  us  again,  you  will 
find  we  are  given  to  saying  odd  things." 

"  Like  Miss  Davenant  ?  " 

"  You  have  found  that  out  already  ?  Well,  come, 
what  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

"  Honestly,  or  conventionally  ?  " 

"  If  I  meant  conventionally,  I  should  not  ask  you  the 
question." 

Kent  waited  for  a  moment,  stroking  his  beard.  He 
was  scarcely  prepared  with  an  answer  even  to  satisfy 
himself. 

"  I  don't  know.  She  is  a  bit  too  complicated  to  be 
defined  in  a  phrase  like  a  term  in  Euclid.  She  is  nearer 
to  a  man  than  any  woman  I  know." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  smiled  inwardly,  noting  the  phrase, 
yet  liking  him  for  it.  It  was  so  deliciously  wrong,  so 
absurdly  off  the  track.  She  contemplated  him  from  the 
empyrean  of  feminine  wisdom,  and  from  that  moment 
took  him  under  her  protection.  To  blunder  honestly  in 
things  feminine  is  one  of  the  ways  to  a  woman's  pity, 
thence  often  to  her  heart.  She  encouraged  him,  how- 
ever, instead  of  correcting  him. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  For  one  reason,  because  I  can  talk  to  her  as  I  would 
to  a  man.  She  has  ideas  and  is  not  afraid  of  expressing 
them.  In  fact,  she  is  different  from  the  ordinary  women 
one  meets." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  she  is  that,"  Mrs.  Farquharson  granted. 
"  She  is  all  for  le  nouveau  jeu.  When  I  want  to  tease 
her  I  tell  her  she  will  find  it  le  vieuxjeu  all  the  time,  but 
she  won't  believe  it."  Then  suddenly,  "  Don't  you  think 
she  is  very  pretty  ?  " 

"  Pretty  ?  "  echoed  Kent  in  some  confusion.  "  Really, 
yes,  I  suppose  she  is.  I  hardly  thought  about  it,"  and 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  63 

leaning  his  body  aside,  so  as  to  catch  a  distant  glimpse 
of  Clytie  between  the  forms  of  the  little  circle  of  men 
round  her,  he  added,  "  she  is  very  pretty." 

And  truly  it  was  a  fair  picture  that  his  eye  fell  upon. 
She  was  wearing  a  simple  dress  of  ivory-coloured  silk, 
falling  in  soft,  straight  folds  to  her  feet.  Her  low-cut 
bodice  was  relieved  only  by  a  ruffle  of  old  lace  along  the 
top,  and  the  sole  ornament  she  wore,  a  necklet  of  antique 
silver,  brought  out  the  delicate  modelling  of  her  shapely 
neck,  as  she  sat  talking  animatedly,  her  chin  pointing 
upwards.  Her  rich,  vivid  colouring  compensated  for  any 
lack  of  relief  in  her  costume.  The  intense  blue  of  her 
eyes,  the  many  glints  in  her  auburn  hair,  twisted  in  a 
careless  knot  at  the  back  of  her  small,  shapely  head,  and 
kept  in  place  by  a  broad  silver  arrow,  would  of  them- 
selves have  supplied  the  place  of  any  ornament. 

"She  is  very  pretty  indeed  —  striking!"  repeated 
Kent. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  looked  at  him  amusedly. 

"  You  must  be  an  original,  Mr.  Kent.  Fancy  knowing 
Clytie  Davenant  without  thinking  of  her  looks  !  " 

"  I  am  a  great  bear,"  replied  Kent.  "  My  sister  says 
so,  and  brothers  and  sisters  generally  speak  the  truth  to 
each  other.  Of  course  I  have  thought  of  Miss  Daven- 
ant's  looks,  in  a  way — admired  her  artistically  ;  but  I 
have  never  realised  in  her  society  that  I  have  been 
talking  to  a  pretty  girl — one  consciously  so.  She  does 
not  seem  to  expect  you  to  be  impressed  with  her  looks. 
That's  one  thing  that  I  like  about  her." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  carried  on  the  conversation  a  little 
further  and  then  directed  it  into  other  channels.  She 
was  pleased  with  Kent,  and  made  a  mental  note  to  see 
more  of  him.  A  man  who  could  like  Clytie  and  yet  not 
reflect  upon  her  personal  attractiveness  was,  as  she  had 
said,  an  oddity,  and  Mrs.  Farquharson  made  oddities 
rather  a  speciality. 

It  was  growing  late  and  there  was  a  perceptible  thin- 
ning in  the  numbers  of  the  guests.  A  few  enthusiasts 
lingered  fondly  over  the  showcases,  comparing  their 
contents  with  specimens  in  their  own  or  other  collections. 
Among  these  was  Treherne,  by  himself,  deeply  cogita- 
tive. He  arrested  Kent,  who  was  passing  by  to  speak 


64  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

to  Clytie,  whom  he  had  scarcely  seen  during  the 
evening,  as  he  had  felt  bound  to  take  an  honest  and 
practical  interest  in  the  proceedings.  The  question  that 
Treherne  desired  Kent's  help  in  solving  was  a  knotty 
one,  and  the  two  men  bent  over  the  table  absorbed  in 
deciphering  an  obliterated  obverse.  When  the  matter 
was  settled  Kent  looked  around  for  Clytie,  but  she  had 
already  disappeared.  There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to 
do  but  to  take  his  leave. 

"  If  you  care  for  a  Bohemian  Sunday  evening  scram- 
ble, when  everyone  talks  inconsequent  nonsense — quite 
a  different  thing  from  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson, 
shaking  hands — "  we  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you." 

In  the  hall  he  was  pleased  to  see  Clytie,  fur  cloaked, 
waiting  for  a  cab.  She  gave  him  a  frank  smile  of  recog- 
nition. With  his  white  slouch  hat  and  waterproof — a 
new  one — his  figure  seemed  to  her  very  familiar.  He 
talked  to  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  until  the  cab  was 
announced. 

"  How  are  you  going  home  ?"  she  said  when  they  were 
on  the  pavement. 

"  Walk,"  he  replied  briefly. 

"  But  it's  raining  hard — would  you  accept  a  lift?" 

He  opened  the  swing  doors  for  her,  shielding  her  dress 
from  the  muddy  wheels  as  she  entered,  and  then  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  He  had  in  fact  been  intending  to  pay 
one  of  his  midnight  visits  to  his  South  Kensington 
friends,  but  Clytie  thought  his  hesitation  was  due  to 
considerations  of  propriety.  She  laughed  with  a  little 
thrill  of  defiance  as  she  settled  herself  comfortably  in  a 
corner.  The  touch  of  rebelliousness  let  loose  an  un- 
wonted shaft  of  coquetry. 

"  Of  course  if  you  think  it  would  do  you  more  good  to 
walk  in  the  rain  than  drive  dry  with  me " 

The  interval  between  her  two  remarks  had  been  very 
short,  taken  up  entirely  with  the  process  of  Clytie's  seating 
herself  in  the  cab,  but  still  Kent  felt  he  had  been  some- 
what unchivalrous. 

"  If  you  really  don't  mind,  I  shall  be  very  grateful,"  he 
said  by  way  of  making  amends  as  he  took  his  seat  by  her 
side. 

After  all,  driving  with   Clytie   was    not  unpleasant, 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  65 

he  reflected,  and  he  could  see  Wither  and  Fairfax  any 
day.  That  Clytie  should  have  made  her  offer  did  not 
seem  unnatural.  He  frankly  informed  her  of  the  cause 
of  his  hesitation. 

"  I  paid  you  the  compliment  of  being  mistaken,"  said 
Clytie. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  catching  a  glimpse  of 
her  face  in  the  swift  gleam  of  a  gas-lamp.  She  was  smil- 
ing, in  good  humour. 

"  Oh  !  if  you  are  mystified,  so  much  the  better,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  It  will  be  my  little  revenge." 

And  that  was  all  the  explanation  she  vouchsafed  him. 

However,  that  drive  spun  a  thread  of  intimacy  be- 
tween them.  There  are  few  conditions  of  companion- 
ship so  favourable  as  those  in  a  hansom  cab.  The  driver 
is  practically  non-existent ;  the  three  sides  and  roof  of 
the  vehicle  form  a  temporary  home,  a  chez  soi.  The  out- 
side world  lies  in  front  of  one,  very  near,  and  yet  one  is 
out  of  it.  Even  the  desolate  squares,  with  their  occa- 
sional lamps  blinking  through  the  mist,  and  their  wet, 
sooty  trees  rustling  reluctantly  as  the  wind  passes 
through  them,  and  their  gaunt  houses,  each  grimly  and 
jealously  guarding  its  household,  giving  the  sense  of  the 
awful  isolation  of  souls,  fail  to  depress  as  they  invariably 
depress  the  sensitive  pedestrian.  There  is  again  the 
cheerful  rattle  which  precludes  sustained  conversation, 
but  encourages  disjointed,  intimate  talk.  The  rush  of  the 
air,  the  whirling  past  of  figures  and  objects,  is  exhilarating 
even  in  the  vilest  of  weather  and  in  the  dreariest  of 
neighbourhoods.  The  rapid  night  glimpses,  too,  of  coffee- 
stalls,  their  lamps  glaring  upon  the  surrounding  idlers ; 
public  houses,  with  the  sudden  babel  of  voices  issuing 
from  an  opened  door ;  walkers  of  the  pavement  forlornly 
standing  with  white,  indistinguishable  faces,  'buses 
steaming  and  labouring  with  their  somnolent  fares  ; 
every  'bus-load  the  counterpart  of  the  last ;  swifter  still, 
the  glimpses  of  the  occupants  of  other  cabs  that  pass, 
stimulating  the  imagination  ;  a  phantasmagoria  of  life, 
almost  unreal,  yet  bringing  into  play  some  of  the  lighter 
elemental  forces  of  nature. 

Clytie  was  almost  sorry  when  the  cab  stopped  at  the 
familiar  side-door  next  to  the  shop  where  the  legend  of 


66  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Gurkins,  green-grocer,"  was  dimly  visible  through  the 
gloom.  Much  of  the  mere  woman  in  her  had  risen  to 
the  surface,  obscuring  the  artist,  the  hater  of  formulas, 
the  restless  seeker  after  the  mysteries  of  life.  She  had 
felt  childish,  frivolous,  thus  appearing  in  a  new  light  to 
Kent,  not  without  a  certain  charm,  although  he  wondered 
to  himself  whether  she,  after  all,  was  not  like  the  rest  of 
womankind — "  fundamentally  silly."  This  was  a  famous 
dictum  of  his. 

But  when  the  door  closed  behind  them,  and  the 
narrow,  ill-lighted,  close-smelling  passage  leading  to  the 
gloomy  staircase  struck  upon  her  senses,  the  realities  of 
life  came  sharply  before  her,  and  her  usual  independence 
of  thought  and  action  reasserted  itself.  Otherwise, 
when  she  had  said  good-night  to  Kent  on  the  landing 
and  had  found  her  room  in  darkness,  she  would  not  have 
called  him  back  to  light  her  lamp  for  her,  and,  that  done, 
have  asked  him  to  remain  for  a  short  chat.  He  was 
struck  by  the  change  to  her  usual  frank  tones,  and  seek- 
ing half  unconsciously  for  a  reason,  attributed  his  late 
impression  to  an  illusion  on  his  part  caused  by  the  dark- 
ness and  dispelled  by  the  light,  by  which  he  could  see 
her  face. 

"  You  smoke,  I  know,"  she  said,  throwing  her  wraps 
on  to  the  sofa.  "  You  must  be  dying  for  some  tobacco. 
What  do  you  smoke  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  a  pipe,"  he  replied  with  much  fervour,  instantly 
seeking  for  it  in  his  pocket. 

Clytie  turned  to  poke  the  fire.  It  was  black  and  sulky, 
and  her  efforts  were  of  not  much  avail. 

"  Let  me  try,"  said  Kent,  bending  down  with  her  on 
the  hearthrug ;  "  this  is  a  thing  not  generally  known." 

He  threw  a  lighted  match  on  to  the  fire,  the  escaping 
gases  burst  into  flame,  and  cheerfulness  was  established 
in  the  grate. 

A  trivial  incident,  but  it  was  recognised  by  them  both 
in  after  years  as  having  served  to  cement  their  comrade- 
ship. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  friendship  between  them  ripened  imperceptibly. 
Each  day  brought  its  tiny  thread  linking  them  together, 
so  gradually,  so  subtly,  that  it  was  not  until  long  after- 
wards that  they  realised  the  immense  strength  of  the 
bond.  At  first  it  was  mere  honest  liking  on  both  sides, 
a  pleasant  consciousness  of  discovery,  an  ordinary  attrac- 
tion between  two  natures,  distinct,  yet  more  or  less 
complementary.  Clytie  found  it  written  in  her  Book  of 
New  Formulas  that  the  loyal  friendship  between  a  man 
and  a  woman  was  a  strengthening  element  of  existence. 
In  her  fierce  pride  and  young  vigour  she  would  not 
allow  that  each  supplied  what  the  other  lacked,  according 
to  the  popular  theory — the  man  strength,  the  woman 
grace — but  asserted  strenuously  the  truth  that  each  could 
lend  the  other  elements  of  strength  the  same  in  degree, 
but  different  in  kind,  owing  to  the  difference  of  sex.  If 
it  had  been  suggested  to  her  that  her  weaker  woman's 
nature  instinctively,  in  spite  of  perfect  emancipation  and 
proud  independence,  sought  the  man's  protecting  fibre, 
the  whole  amazon  within  her  would  have  been  up  in 
arms.  She  found  in  Kent  a  man  whom  she  could  meet 
upon  a  ground  of  perfect  equality — perfectly  even, 
neither  blocked  by  prejudices  and  social  barriers  nor 
haunted  by  sexual  spectres.  She  was  woman  enough, 
however,  to  perceive  intuitively  certain  shynesses  in  Kent, 
resulting  from  a  half  knowledge  of  her,  that  would  have 
kept  him  aloof  in  spite  of  a  very  sensible  attraction 
towards  her  ;  and  in  showing  him,  therefore,  that  this 
attraction  was  mutual  she  felt  no  compunction, — rather 
pride,  on  the  contrary,  in  reaching  a  superior  plane  in 
which  conduct  was  measured  by  superior  standards. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  the  eternal  feminine  once 
more  deceived  itself,  mistaking  nature  for  what  it  called 
the  Fine  Art  of  Life. 

67 


o  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Kent,  for  his  part,  did  not  attempt  to  realise  the  charm 
that  made  his  fingers  close  daily  on  the  handle  of  the 
studio  door.  He  accepted  the  offered  friendship,  and 
returned  it  as  frankly  as  it  was  given.  It  became  as 
natural  to  stop  at  the  studio,  before  mounting  to  his 
attics  on  his  return  home  from  the  Museum,  as  to  burst 
into  the  South  Kensington  "  monastery  "  for  a  midnight 
rubber.  Variety,  fresh  interests,  were  brought  into  his 
life,  vivid  as  it  was  with  darling  hopes  and  full  working 
energies.  It  was  refreshing  to  come  once  again  into  the 
sphere,  familiar  and  dear  to  him  during  his  father's  life- 
time, of  practical  art.  It  was  something  for  him  to  look 
forward  to,  during  his  tramp  home — the  stage  nearer 
completeness  effected  during  a  day's  work  in  an  artistic 
creation.  Gradually,  in  his  blunt,  paternal  way,  he  con- 
stituted himself  the  censor  of  Clytie's  work,  criticising 
irregularities,  suggesting  treatment.  There  grew  within 
him,  too,  a  brotherly  kindness  towards  Winifred,  who 
looked  forward  also  to  his  afternoon  visit,  when  she 
would  shyly  uncover  the  small  canvas  and  receive  with 
a  gratified  flush  his  meed  of  appreciation. 

He  arrived  after  the  tea-things  had  been  cleared 
away,  when  the  day's  work  was  over,  in  the  twilight  hour, 
outstaying  Winifred  a  short  while,  whose  evening  family 
meal  was  half  an  hour  before  Clytie's  dinner.  It  was  in 
these  short  periods  of  companionship,  when  they  were 
alone  together,  that,  unconsciously  to  themselves,  the 
finer  touches  were  added  to  the  broader  intimacy  that 
the  previous  half  hour  had  brought  one  step  further  in 
development.  Piece  by  piece,  by  means  of  a  reference 
here,  a  petulant  outburst  there,  he  grew  familiar  with  the 
ambitions  and  struggles  of  her  past  life.  He  was  quick 
to  catch  a  certain  note  of  disappointment.  She  had  not 
yet  become  a  great  artist,  was  defiantly  certain  that  she 
could  never  be  one. 

"  Of  course  you  won't  if  you  use  your  art  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  life,"  he  said  one  day. 

She  marked  the  saying,  resolving,  however,  half 
rebelliously  to  make  him  belie  his  words  in  the  days 
to  come.  She,  too,  gathered  from  him  the  nature  of  his 
hope  and  aspirations,  wondered  at  the  cheerful  selfless- 
ness with  which  he  contemplated  the  work  that  would 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  69 

bring  him  neither  name  nor  fame,  nor  the  things  that 
many  men  desire. 

One  day  he  took  Clytie  and  Winifred  up  to  his  attic 
museum,  pleased  as  a  boy  to  show  them  his  treasures. 
Winifred  praised  the  bright  neatness  of  his  arrange- 
ments. He  confessed  guiltily  that  he  had  been  "tidying 
up  " — a  process  that  had  cost  him  the  whole  of  the  pre- 
vious Sunday.  Many  of  his  pictures  had  been  left  him 
by  his  father,  particularly  his  collection  of  Aldegravers, 
over  which  he  fondly  lingered,  lamenting  that  the  old 
days  of  pure  design  were  over,  and  railing  at  the  mer- 
cenary spirit  of  modern  art.  He  counselled  Clytie  to 
study  the  little  masters  for  her  book  illustrating.  She 
would  learn  restraint,  abstraction. 

"  But  it's  no  good  preaching  Durer  and  Behm  in  these 
days,"  he  added  pathetically,  with  the  resignation  of  the 
collector  who  does  not  expect  his  hobby  to  be  under- 
stood. 

Clytie  laughed  softly,  sympathetic  with  his  enthusiasms. 
No  real  artist  can  help  loving  the  little  masters.  But 
Clyde's  artistic  impulses  warred  with  each  other,  with 
circumstance,  and  with  herself.  So  she  refused  to  sit, 
for  practical  purposes,  at  the  foot  of  Aldegraver.  She 
ran  over  the  titles  of  books,  borrowed  a  couple,  which  he 
recommended,  from  the  general  literature  section,  stood  in 
some  dismay  before  the  scientific  specialist's  library,  and 
asked  to  see  what  was  visible  of  the  great  work.  He 
gave  her  some  bundles  of  manuscript,  which  she  turned 
over  helplessly  and  handed  back  without  a  word.  They 
were  evidences  of  a  world  of  infinite  toil  and  devotion  not 
yet  intelligible  to  her.  She  gazed  around  the  picturesque 
walls  of  the  room  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
carpetless  floor  and  the  fenderless  grate.  The  absence 
of  the  minor  softnesses  of  material  life  struck  her  vividly. 
There  were  evidences  of  a  high  love  for  art,  but  art  in  a 
too  rarefied  atmosphere  for  her  nature.  She  would  have 
liked  to  curtain  the  windows, — they  were  even  destitute 
of  blinds, — to  put  rugs  about  the  floor,  to  soften  the 
room  with  drapery,  plants,  flowers  ;  even  an  armchair 
beside  the  fire  would  have  been  aesthetically  as  well  as 
physically  reposeful.  Winifred's  simpler  feminine  im- 
pulses struck  the  true  chord. 


70  AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Why  doesn't  your  sister  make  you  some  pretty  things 
for  your  room  ?  " 

"  She  does — heaps  of  things." 

"  Where  are  they,  then  ?  " 

Kent  looked  at  her  with  humorous  shamefacedness. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  a  drawer  full  of  them  somewhere," 
he  replied. 

"  Well,  your  room  is  very  much  like  yourself,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  and  hesitating  a  little.  "  You  both 
lack  the  same  thing." 

And  blundering  John  Kent  misread  the  oracle,  accept- 
ing it  as  a  reproach  for  brotherly  unkindness. 

Meanwhile  Clytie's  "  own  "  picture  of  the  model  Jack 
was  developing  into  a  more  finished  and  more  ambitious 
work  than  she  had  originally  intended.  On  Kent's  sug- 
gestion she  had  toned  down  some  of  its  brutality  with- 
out rendering  less  vivid  the  presentation  of  the  problem. 
She  thought  of  trying  to  exhibit  the  picture  when  it  was 
completed  ;  Jack  therefore  continued  to  appear  in  the 
studio  at  irregular  intervals.  Winifred  encouraged  him 
now,  trying  to  humanise  him  with  picture-books,  stories, 
and  simple  talk,  but  Clytie  shook  her  head  at  her  gentle 
friend's  efforts,  conceiving  them,  with  her  fuller  and  more 
materialistic  knowledge,  to  be  entirely  futile.  Still 
Winifred  obtained  from  him  more  details  of  what  Clytie 
called  his  private  life  than  she  herself  could  do.  With 
both  of  them  he  was  fierce  and  sullen,  but  with  Wini- 
fred he  was  more  cynically  expansive.  These  details 
only  supplemented  the  data  afforded  by  his  own  person- 
ality. Sometimes  he  went  to  the  board  school,  where  he 
was  in  the  third  standard  ;  oftener  he  stayed  away.  He 
slept  in  his  mother's  room,  ate  his  desultory  food  there 
with  the  fierceness  of  a  young  wolf;  but  his  real  home 
was  in  the  street.  Once  he  had  been  given  a  situation 
as  satellite  to  a  thriving  costermonger,  but  the  restraints 
of  regular  employment  had  chafed  him  into  resignation 
of  his  post.  Besides,  his  employer  had  thrashed  him 
unmercifully.  As  for  his  parentage,  he  was  entirely 
ignorant ;  he  did  not  care.  To  his  mind  it  was  a 
merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  that  he  only  had 
one  parent  to  irritate  and  annoy  him.  He  liked  to  come 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  ^l 

to  the  studio  because  it  was  warm  and  comfortable, 
besides  which  he  obtained  a  shilling  at  the  end  of  the 
day  to  be  expended  on  inferior  tobacco  when  together 
with  his  playmates. 

One  morning,  earlier  than  usual,  he  slouched  up  the 
stairs  and,  contrary  to  custom,  found  the  studio  door  open 
and  the  apartment  empty.  He  entered,  swinging  the 
door  with  him,  which,  being  caught  by  the  draught  from 
an  open  skylight,  slammed  with  sudden  violence.  If  he 
had  heard  the  quick  rattle  of  a  falling  door-knob,  his 
subsequent  conduct  would  doubtless  have  been  modified. 
He  was  alone  in  the  studio  ;  he  waited  idly,  lying  in  front 
of  the  stove  ;  but  as  no  one  came,  he  began  to  feel  rest- 
less. He  rose  to  his  feet,  wandered  about,  shut  the  sky- 
light, examined  the  contents  of  the  studio.  He  found 
a  packet  of  cigarettes  lying  about,  which  he  pocketed ; 
an  investigation  of  the  cupboard  in  the  wall  rewarded 
him  with  some  lumps  of  sugar  and  some  sweet  biscuits. 
Still  no  one  came,  which  was  not  extraordinary,  as  his 
employer  had  not  yet  thought  of  breakfasting.  No  fur- 
ther resources  being  offered  to  his  predatory  instincts, 
he  proceeded  to  look  at  the  pictures,  with  which  he  had 
already  a  contemptuous  familiarity.  The  only  one  for 
which  he  had  a  genuine  admiration,  or  rather  the  bar- 
barian's feeling  of  awe  at  any  counterfeit  presentment 
of  himself,  was  his  own  portrait.  At  this  he  seldom 
tired  of  looking. 

He  took  down  from  the  wall  a  little  painted  mirror, 
and,  sitting  on  the  stool  in  front  of  the  picture,  pro- 
ceeded to  compare  the  original  and  the  portrait.  He 
saw  that  the  resemblance  was  not  quite  perfect,  and  like 
a  monkey  he  grimaced  into  the  looking-glass  until  he 
had  reproduced  the  expression  that  Clytie  had  fixed 
upon  the  canvas.  Then  he  laughed  in  great  glee, 
scratched  his  black  curly  head,  and  went  in  quest  of 
further  occupation.  He  crossed  over  to  Winifred's  easel 
and  took  off  the  cloth.  He  had  no  great  idea  of  "  the 
other  one's "  picture.  It  did  not  interest  him.  But, 
unfortunately,  in  his  simian  mood,  an  idea  shot  through 
his  mind.  Why  should  he  not  try  to  paint  too  ? 

He  mounted  upon  Winifred's  seat,  took  her  palette  in 
his  hand  as  he  had  seen  her  hold  it,  with  his  small,  dirty 


72  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

thumb  through  the  hole  in  the  white  porcelain,  gathered 
the  little  sheaf  of  brushes,  arranged  the  mahl-stick  imi- 
tatively,  and,  dipping  a  brush  into  the  remains  of  some 
Chinese  white,  tried  to  fill  in  some  anemones.  They 
were  only  splotches  of  white  paint,  but  the  occupation 
absorbed  him.  In  a  very  few  moments  the  whole  can- 
vas was  starred  with  Jack's  white  dabs.  Then,  growing 
tired  of  the  monotony  of  white, — the  colours  on  the 
palette  did  not  attract  him, — he  fetched  Clytie's,  which 
was  more  richly  prepared,  and  painted  in  strokes  of 
crimson  and  yellow.  The  delight  of  colour  fascinated 
him.  He  obliterated  all  the  white,  daubed  the  canvas 
over  and  over  with  heavy  streaks,  laughing  aloud  with 
the  spirit  of  diabolical  mischief.  Then,  with  a  fox 
terrier's  or  a  monkey's  instinct  of  destruction,  he  took 
up  the  palette-knife  and  stabbed  holes  through  the 
canvas. 

He  contemplated  his  work  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
the  very  human  anticipation  of  consequences  occurring 
to  his  mind,  he  bethought  himself  of  flight.  But,  to  his 
dismay,  he  found  the  door-handle  had  fallen  off  when 
the  door  had  slammed,  and  that  he  was  a  prisoner  until 
someone  should  open  it  from  outside.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  reflecting.  Then 
he  covered  up  his  handiwork  carefully  with  a  cloth, 
scrupulously  replaced  the  palettes  and  brushes,  and 
curled  himself  up  in  his  usual  doglike  attitude  by  the 
stove,  there  to  await  events. 

After  a  time  there  came  a  rattle  of  the  knob-screw 
being  fitted  into  the  vacant  hole  in  the  lock,  which  made 
his  heart  beat,  and  Clytie  entered  the  room  humming  a 
song.  She  was  surprised  to  find  him  there,  and  elicited 
a  monosyllabic  explanation  of  his  presence.  She  was  in 
a  good  humour  and  talked  lightly  to  him  as  she  moved 
about  the  studio,  changing  the  water  of  some  flowers. 
The  errand-boy  from  the  shop  below  came  up  with  Win- 
nie's anemones  that  had  been  put  in  a  cool  place  over 
night  to  keep  them  fresh  one  day  longer.  Clytie  set 
them  on  the  stand  beside  Winifred's  easel.  Jack  watched 
her,  looked  at  the  door,  measuring  the  distance. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  Clytie  asked  sharply  as  she 
turned  round  and  caught  him  stealing  across  the  room. 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  73 

He  was  terribly  afraid  of  her.  Those  great  dark  blue 
eyes  seemed  to  command  him.  He  never  could  meet 
them  with  his  own.  He  relapsed  doggedly  into  his 
position  by  the  stove.  Clytie  touched  the  anemones 
daintily,  picking  some  faded  leaves,  still  humming  her 
song.  In  lightness  of  heart  she  took  off  the  cloth  to 
look  at  Winnie's  work,  and  then  fell  back  with  a  cry  of 
horror  and  anger.  A  swift  glance  at  Jack  brought  her 
knowledge. 

"  You  little  fiend ! "  she  cried  with  eyes  aflame,  and 
catching  the  cowering,  sullen  urchin  by  the  collar  of  shirt 
and  jacket,  she  dragged  him  out  of  the  studio,  on  to  the 
landing. 

Kent  happened  to  have  just  gone  down  the  stairs  on 
his  way  out.  The  noise  of  the  scuffle  reached  him  in  the 
entrance  passage  and  brought  him  up  to  the  studio  door. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  he  asked,  taking  the  boy  from 
Clytie's  grasp  into  his  own. 

"  The  matter  ?  Go  inside.  I  must  call  Winnie. 
Winnie  !  " 

She  opened  the  sitting-room  door.  Winifred  ran  out, 
holding  her  gloves,  which  she  had  just  taken  off,  in  her 
hand. 

"  That  boy — that  little  devil  !  "  cried  Clytie,  and  they 
both  ran  into  the  studio. 

Kent  had  just  entered,  and  was  standing  before  the 
mutilated  picture  holding  the  boy,  who  in  Kent's  hands 
was  struggling  violently.  Winifred  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment  blankly,  scarcely  understanding.  Then  the  sick- 
ening  truth  rose  to  her  brain,  and  she  leaned,  very  white, 
against  the  wall,  looking  at  the  others. 

"  For  God's  sake  take  the  little  brute  out  and  kill  him, 
Mr.  Kent  !  "  Clytie  broke  out  fiercely.  "  Murder  him  ! 
break  every  bone  in  his  body  !  To  have  done  such  a 
thing  as  that  !  It  is  not  human." 

"  I'll  give  him  a  thundering  hiding,"  said  Kent  wrath- 
fully,  dragging  him  towards  the  door. 

But  Winifred  rose  quickly,  moved  her  neck,  cleared 
her  throat,  and  laid  her  hand  on  Kent's  arm. 

"  Don't  beat  him — I  couldn't  bear  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Winnie  !  sit  down,"  cried  Clytie.  "Take 
him  away,Mr.Kent,  or  I'll  do  him  some  mischief  myself ! " 


74  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Kent  shook  the  urchin  till  his  teeth  chattered  and  his 
evil  little  face  grew  red.  Winifred  still  clung  to  his 
arm. 

"  Don't !  you  shan't  do  it !  He  is  no  better  than  an 
animal!  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  Nothing 
you  could  do  to  him  would  give  me  back  my  picture.  It 
would  be  simple  vengeance.  Oh,  send  him  away ! 
Send  him  away  !  "  and  turning  from  Kent,  she  burst 
into  tears  and  clung  to  Clytie,  sobbing. 

"  Miss  Marchpane  is  right,"  said  Kent  slowly  and 
looking  at  Clytie.  "  Let  the  little  brute  go.  Here,  you, 
go  !  If  ever  I  see  you  near  the  place,  I  will  give  you  to 
a  policeman  ! " 

Visions  of  the  lowering  blue  storm-cloud,  ever  seeming 
to  the  children  of  the  streets  ready  to  burst  upon  their 
heads,  loomed  before  the  little  outcast's  imagination. 
He  shivered,  shrunk  away  from  Kent's  relaxed  grasp, 
darted  a  keen,  swift  look  of  malignity  at  Clytie,  and  dis- 
appeared like  a  flash  through  the  open  door. 

Clytie  held  Winifred  protectingly  with  one  arm,  sooth- 
ing her,  mingling  words  of  comfort  with  outbursts  of 
self-reproach  and  unrighteous  indignation.  As  Jack 
slipped  away  she  made  an  impulsive  movement  forward, 
but  Winifred  restrained  her. 

"How  dare  you  let  him  go  ?"  she  exclaimed,  turning 
her  anger  upon  Kent.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  you  I 
would  have  given  him  a  lesson  he'd  have  remem- 
bered all  his  life.  To  do  a  work  of  devilry  like  that 
and  not  be  punished  !  I'll  set  the  police  upon  him  !  " 

"  No,  no !  "  murmured  Winifred. 

"  I  will.  What  are  reformatories  for  ?  Go  and  call 
a  policeman,  Mr.  Kent.  It  is  the  least  you  can  do  !  " 

"  I  shall  leave  him  alone,"  replied  Kent.  "  It  would 
not  do  him  any  good  and  it  would  not  do  Miss  March- 
pane any  good.  He'll  never  come  here  again,  and  I 
should  advise  you  not  to  introduce  any  more  of  his 
sort  into  your  studio.  When  a  child  of  the  flesh  and 
the  devil  gets  hold  of  a  thing  of  the  spirit,  the  spirit- 
ual suffers." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  lectured,"  said  Clytie  stonily. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  offended  you,  Miss  Davenant," 
replied  Kent.  "  I  have  the  sincerest  sympathy  with 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  75 

Miss  Marchpane  for  her  loss,  and  I  would  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  help  her  or  you  ;  and  so — good- 
morning." 

Kent  worked  hard  that  day  at  the  Museum.  He  was 
troubled  over  the  morning's  occurrence.  He  was 
conscious  that  he  had  acted  rightly  in  acquiescing  in 
Winifred's  counsel  of  mercy,  but  he  had  a  vague,  inarticu- 
late regret  that  he  had  not  pleased  Clytie.  He  resolutely 
set  himself  to  forget  everything  in  his  work  and  finished 
earlier  than  usual.  On  his  way  out  he  met  his  friend 
Wither  in  the  great  hall. 

"  I  have  come  to  carry  you  off  to  the  club  to  dine  and 
there  to  reason  with  you,"  said  the  small,  gnomelike 
man.  "  They  are  spring-cleaning  at  home  and  the  place 
reeks  of  freshness  and  innocence.  Greene  and  Fairfax 
like  it  ;  they  say  it's  healthy.  I  prefer  the  accumulated 
and  mellowed  deposit  of  winter.  It's  as  bad  as  washing 
a  meerschaum.  Anyhow,  it's  got  to  get  coloured  a  bit, 
and  until  it  does  I  clear  out  and  you  are  coming  to  clear 
with  me." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Kent  ;  "  I  will  waste  part  of  an 
evening  upon  you — to  prevent  you  wasting  it  yourself 
more  sinfully.  You  were  lucky  to  catch  me  ;  I  was  just' 
going." 

The  policeman  at  the  door  saluted  Kent  as  he  passed 
out. 

"  That  ought  to  have  been  for  me,"  said  Wither.  "  I 
am  far  the  more  reputable-looking  of  the  two." 

Kent  laughed  good-humouredly  and  grasped  his  ash 
stick  sturdily  in  his  gloveless  hands.  The  contrast 
between  the  dandified  elegance  of  Wither's  dress  and  his 
own  careless,  loose  attire  appealed  to  his  sense  of  the 
humorous. 

"  I'll  walk  a  few  yards  behind  you  if  you  like,"  he  said, 
repeating  a  familiar  and  time-honoured  jest  between  them. 

They  walked  down  the  great  flight  of  steps  and  across 
the  courtyard,  where  the  pigeons  were  fluttering  joyfully 
in  the  afternoon  sunshine.  When  they  had  arrived  at 
the  railings,  whose  gilt  spear-points  caught  the  sun, 
Wither  turned  and  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  frowning 
mass  of  the  edifice. 


76  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  This  always  suggests  the  brain  of  London,  immeasur- 
able in  this  ugly  poll  of  a  Bloomsbury,  with  its  watery 
eyes  and  dejected  face,  that  seems  to  be  perpetually 
meditating  on  death  and  influenza.  I  am  going  to  work 
up  the  idea  one  of  these  days  and  turn  it  into  copy." 

"It  certainly  does  not  look  promising  in  the  crude 
state,"  observed  Kent  by  way  of  encouragement. 

They  walked  along  Oxford  Street  and  down  Shaftes- 
bury  Avenue.  Here,  while  passing  in  front  of  a  photog- 
rapher's window,  their  eyes  were  caught  by  a  group  of 
complacent  people  of  both  sexes — "  with  superior  smiles 
and  inferior  clothes,"  as  Wither  said — described  by  a 
legend  printed  on  the  mount  as  the  "  Parnassus  House 
Mutual  Improvement  Society."  Wither  entered  the 
shop  and  purchased  a  copy,  as  a  "  monument  of  the 
stupendous  fatuity  of  man."  In  the  comfortable  smok- 
ing-room of  the  Junior  Cosmopolitan,  St.  James's  Square, 
Wither  held  the  photograph  out  on  his  knees  before  him 
and  discoursed  upon  it. 

"  Look  at  them,"  he  said,  half  hidden  in  the  great 
armchair.  "  Dear  old  Philistia  !  When  is  the  Almighty 
going  to  redeem  his  promise  and  triumph  over  it  ? 
Mutual  improvement ! — on  the  principle  of  Mark  Twain's 
islanders,  who  eked  out  a  precarious  livelihood  by  taking 
in  each  other's  washing  !  This  pathetic  kind  of  person 
belongs  to  home  reading  societies.  Do  you  know 
what  they  are  ?  I  was  staying  with  the  Brownes  last 
summer  ;  asked  the  youngest  to  come  and  play  tennis. 
She  replied  with  awful  solemnity  that  she  was  going  to 
read  her  '  half  hour.'  I  was  impressed  ;  good  girl,  I  said, 
and  pictured  her  to  myself  conducting  her  devotional 
exercises  over  St.  Thomas  a  Kempis  or  St.  Augustine's 
'  Confessions  '  in  the  sanctity  of  her  maiden  chamber. 
Next  day  I  found  her  reading  the  report  of  an  agricul- 
tural commission  for  the  year  1831.  Asked  her  what 
the  deuce  she  was  reading  that  for.  She  replied  she  was 
reading  her  '  half  hour  ' ;  it  was  the  only  '  solid  '  book 
she  could  find  downstairs !  Novels  and  poetry  and 
magazines  were  tabooed.  I  asked  her  whether  she 
thought  George  Meredith  or  Dante  flippant.  She  could 
not  exactly  say — but  they  were  not  solid.  God  help 
us!" 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  77 

"  You  are  as  bad  as  my  friend  Miss  Davenant,"  said 
Kent,  laughing.  "  She  is  always  railing  at  Philistia. 
You  might  lend  me  the  photograph  to  show  her  ;  it 
would  amuse  her — perhaps  it  might  teach  her  some- 
thing." 

Wither  gave  him  the  photograph,  but  after  a  short 
pause  Kent  returned  it. 

"  I'll  take  it  some  other  time.  I  don't  quite  know  at 
present  how  we  are  going  to  stand  to  one  another  ;  we 
had  a  bit  of  a  scene  this  morning." 

Wither  raised  his  eyebrows  and  turned  his  head  lazily, 
looking  at  Kent. 

"  You  interest  me,  friend  John.  Is  Saul  also  among 
the  prophets  ?  Expound." 

Kent  roughly  sketched  the  morning's  episode  in  the 
studio. 

"  So,  you  see,  there's  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
split,"  he  added. 

"  She  will  come  round  all  right,"  said  Wither,  "  if  she 
cares  about  you.  If  she  doesn't,  she  is  not  worth  caring 
about.  Never  you  mind.  There  is  nothing  does  women 
so  much  good  as  a  little  wholesome  neglect.  Crede  ex- 
perto.  As  for  the  matter  in  question,  of  course  you  were 
wrong.  You  should  have  thrashed  the  little  devil's  life 
out.  But  with  a  woman,  having  right  or  wrong  on  her 
side  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  That  may  be  true  in  the  case  of  the  woman  you 
like  to  philander  with,  Teddy,  but  Clytie  Davenant's 
different." 

"  Bah,  my  dear  old  boy,  they  are  all  the  same,  every 
one  of  them." 

"  You  have  never  met  one  of  them  whom  you  could 
treat  in  the  ordinary  straightforward  way — make  a  friend 
of  as  if  she  were  a  man." 

"  No,  old  chap,  nor  do  I  want  to.  If  you've  got  to 
treat  a  woman  as  if  she  were  a  man,  what  the  devil's  the 
good  of  her  being  a  woman?" 

"  You  are  talking  for  the  sake  of  talking,  Teddy," 
said  Kent  with  some  earnestness.  "  You  know  it's  all  non- 
sense. Women  generally  are  foolish  enough,  God  knows, 
but  the  sole  end  of  their  being  is  not  to  be  fooled  about 
with  in  flirtations  and  love-makings  and  such  sickening 
6 


78  AT   THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

nonsense.  And  when  one  does  come  across  a  girl  with 
an  intelligence  above  the  ordinary  and  instincts  above 
bazaars  and  the  river,  one  likes  her  and  is  exceedingly 
sorry  to  have  any  row  with  her." 

"  Ah  me  ! "  murmured  the  little  man,  examining  his 
trim  finger  nails  with  intent  brow,  "  whether  we  cultivate 
the  'languor  and  lilies  of  virtue,'  or  the  '  roses  and  rap- 
tures of  vice,'  it  doesn't  matter — the  trail  of  the  petti- 
coat's over  us  all.  Come  and  have  a  'hundred  up' 
before  dinner." 

Kent  did  not  carry  home  the  ridiculous  portrait,  and 
Wither,  to  avoid  the  trouble  of  taking  with  him  the 
awkwardly  sized  parcel  that  would  not  fit  into  his  pocket, 
very  characteristically  posted  it  to  himself.  As  Kent 
passed  Clytie's  door  he  noticed  that  it  was  ajar  and  that 
the  room  was  dark.  Evidently  she  had  gone  out.  If 
she  had  retired  early  to  bed,  she  would  have  shut  the 
door,  as  her  bedroom  opened  into  the  sitting-room. 
He  felt  a  certain  sense  of  loss,  he  did  not  know  why,  for 
even  if  the  little  streak  of  light  beneath  the  door  had 
announced  her  presence  within,  he  certainly  would  not 
have  sought  admittance.  He  went  upstairs  more  slowly 
than  usual,  thinking  of  her  and  of  the  morning's  scene. 
By  the  dim  gas  on  his  landing  he  perceived  an  unframed 
picture  leaning,  face-hidden,  against  his  door,  and  on 
the  ground  a  letter.  This  was  addressed  to  him  in  the 
bold,  rounded  handwriting  which  he  recognised  as 
Clytie's.  He  opened  it  and  read  : 

You  were  right.     I  am  sorry.     Keep  the  picture  as  a  token. 

C.  D. 

Kent  turned  the  canvas  round.  It  was  the  exhibition 
picture  of  Jack. 

He  took  it  in  with  him,  and  placed  it  on  his  dresser- 
table.  It  formed  a  strange  contrast  to  the  calm-faced 
Woolmer  cavalier  that  was  hanging  above ;  a  strange 
contrast,  too,  with  its  colour,  its  modernity,  its  realism, 
to  the  cold  classicism  of  the  pale,  pure  relics  of  the  past 
that  lined  the  walls.  Troubled  by  the  discord,  he  turned 
its  face  to  the  wall,  but  immediately,  ashamed  of  the 
impulse  and  calling  himself  a  fool,  he  turned  it  again. 
Then,  after  lighting  his  reading-lamp  and  turning  out 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  79 

the  gas,  he  sat  down  at  the  writing  space  on  his  dresser- 
table. 

The  room  door  was  open.  The  house  was  perfectly 
still,  save  for  the  occasional  creak  of  the  stairs  and 
banisters  near  the  attics.  From  the  street  outside,  far 
beneath,  came  the  faint,  ghostlike  rumble  of  passing 
vehicles.  Kent  had  never  realised  what  absolute  silence 
reigned  at  night  in  that  quiet  household.  A  cuckoo- 
clock  in  the  bedroom  below  struck  with  a  suddenness 
and  clearness  that  startled  him.  It  was  only  twelve 
o'clock.  Clytie  would  be  back  soon  if  she  had  gone 
out  to  spend  the  evening  with  friends  or  at  a  theatre. 
He  proceeded  with  some  mechanical  work,  docketing 
papers,  his  ear  expectant  of  the  sudden  drag  of  a  hansom 
at  the  street  door.  Several  times  he  was  deceived  and 
went  out  on  the  landing  to  listen  for  the  sounds  announc- 
ing Clytie's  arrival.  Then  he  resumed  his  occupation. 
Perhaps  she  was  indoors  and  asleep  all  the  time,  he 
thought ;  but  the  open  door  surely  betokened  her 
absence.  He  persuaded  himself  into  this  belief,  desiring 
intensely  to  see  her.  The  immediate  fulfilment  of 
Wither's  prognostications  troubled  him.  Had  it  not 
been  for  his  friend's  bantering  remarks  he  would  have 
judged  Clytie's  frank  confession  by  the  touchstone  of  his 
own  simplicity,  and  found  it  natural,  prompted  by  no 
other  motives  than  kindliness  and  common  sense.  But 
what  if  it  proceeded  from  the  "  fundamental  silliness" 
of  woman,  that  he  himself  pitied  and  Wither  professed  to 
hold  in  contempt  ? 

At  last  an  unmistakable  pause  in  the  dimly  heard 
rattle  of  a  hansom  made  him  rise  again  and  go  on  to  the 
landing.  Someone  entered  the  house.  He  heard  the 
far  distant  creak  of  the  stairs  and  the  vague  rustle  of 
skirts.  It  was  Clytie.  In  the  deathlike  stillness  of  the 
house  he  heard  the  sharp  striking  of  a  match.  He 
waited  for  a  moment  or  two  and  then  went  down. 

Clytie,  in  her  hat  and  cloak,  was  reading,  by  the  light 
of  her  bedroom  candle,  a  letter  that  had  arrived  by  the 
last  post. 

"  May  I  come  in  for  one  minute  ?" 

"  Of  course — for  two  if  you  like.  Do  you  know,  I  had 
an  idle  fancy  that  I  should  see  you  when  I  got  home  ? " 


8o  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Did  you  ?  I  am  very  glad  ;  it  assures  me  that  you 
don't  think  me — what  shall  I  say  ? — presumptuous  in 
waiting  for  you  to  come  in  and  then  intruding." 

"  Did  you  listen  for  me  ?  You  are  good.  I  am 
scarcely  worth  it." 

"  I  felt  I  must  thank  you  for  your  little  note — and  the 
picture." 

"  Well  ?  And  are  we  going  to  make  friends  again, 
Mr.  Kent?" 

She  looked  him  in  the  face  proudly,  yet  laughingly, 
and  held  out  her  ungloved  hand. 

"  There  !  "  she  added.  "  I  behaved  very  badly  to  you 
this  morning,  and  you  must  thank  Winifred  for  bringing 
me  to  a  sense  of  decency  ;  but  really  when  I  saw  the 
dear  child's  work  done  to  death  by  my  own  fault  I  was 
not  mistress  of  myself.  I  suppose  it  is  best  when  one  is 
in  the  wrong  to  own  it — to  one's  friends." 

"  It  is  sensible,"  said  Kent,  "  and  I  am  very  proud  of 
your  reckoning  me  among  your  friends." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  strange  little  smile  playing 
round  the  corner  of  her  lips  as  she  put  up  both  hands  to 
withdraw  her  hat-pin — a  graceful  attitude,  instinct  with 
femininity.  The  look  and  the  attitude  disconcerted 
Kent  for  a  moment.  However,  her  next  words  reassured 
him. 

"  I  judged  you  by  myself,  you  know.  I  had  found 
our  friendship  a  pleasant  thing,  and  felt  that  you  did  so, 
too,  and  I  was  sorry  lest  anything  should  break  it ;  other- 
wise I  should  not  have  taken  the  trouble  to  '  climb 
down,'  as  they  say." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,"  replied  Kent  mag- 
nanimously. "  If  we  pride  ourselves  on  being  superior 
to  certain  conventionalities  of  habit,  we  ought  to  extend 
our  conventionalities  of  sentiment.  I  have  been  very 
troubled  all  day,  Miss  Davenant,  I  must  confess,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  how  touched  I  was  by  your  message.  It's 
not  every  woman  by  a  long  way  that  would  have  sent  it." 

"  And  I  would  not  have  written  it  to  every  man,"  re- 
turned Clytie  ;  "  of  that  you  may  be  quite  certain." 

And  so  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Thus  the  breach  between  them  was  quite  covered  over 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  8 1 

and  their  relations  strengthened  by  a  newer  impression  of 
mutual  dependence,  a  more  active  sense  of  comrade- 
ship. They  laughed  frankly  at  the  Great  Convention- 
alities, and  went  about  together  to  theatres,  concerts, 
picture-shows.  Kent  accompanied  her  to  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son's  Sunday  evenings,  where  he  found  a  ready  welcome 
from  the  artistic  and  literary  circle,  to  whom  his  father  had 
been  well  known.  Mrs.  Farquharson  called  them  "  Ores- 
tia  and  Pylades,"  by  this  time  recognising  their  compan- 
ionship as  a  social  fact.  They  always  went  back  together, 
generally  for  a  great  part  of  the  way  on  foot  when  the 
weather  grew  warm  and  the  nights  were  dry  and  clear. 
On  the  weekday  evenings,  when  Clytie  was  at  home,  Kent 
would  bring  down  his  work  and  his  reference-books  to 
Clytie's  room,  and  write  there,  while  she  drew  or  read  or 
busied  herself  with  odds  and  ends  of  needlework.  It 
had  all  the  outward  seeming  of  friendship — nothing 
more.  For  hours  they  would  sit  together  without  ex- 
changing a  word — a  real  test.  But  Clytie  grew  interested 
in  the  progress  of  Kent's  work,  gradually  obtained  a 
clear  idea  of  its  scope  and  proportion,  and  could  speak 
intimately  to  him  concerning  it,  although  its  matter  was 
as  incomprehensible  to  her  as  to  any  other  non-specialist. 
It  gave  the  girl,  too,  a  sense  of  rest  and  strength  to  see 
him  sitting  there,  patiently,  serenely  working.  She  be- 
gan to  have  doubts  as  to  the  completeness  of  her  own 
scheme  of  life,  its  worthiness,  satisfaction.  Hitherto  the 
sense  of  independence,  freedom,  accumulating  know- 
ledge  of  that  whose  foreshadowings  had  filled  her  girl- 
ish heart  with  unrest,  had  almost  satisfied  her.  Now 
she  began  to  look  beyond.  With  her  young  being  as 
yet  untouched  by  passion,  she  did  not  realise  the  fulness 
that  love  must  bring  into  life.  She  vaguely  speculated 
upon  it,  faint,  elusive  gleams  of  perception  passing 
rapidly  through  her  into  the  darkness,  but  that  was  all. 
The  secret  of  life,  she  thought,  could  only  be  wrested 
from  the  tangle  of  the  labyrinth  by  single-minded  en- 
deavour, sacrifice,  devotion.  Was  not  Kent  right  when 
he  accused  her  of  making  her  art  a  stepping-stone  in- 
stead of  an  end  ? 

Kent,  manlike,  and  honester,  too,  than  most  men,  was 
unconscious  of  this  self-abasement.     Since  the  day  of 


82  AT  THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

that  fierce  struggle  with  herself  which  had  resulted  in 
her  sending  him  the  missive  of  submission  he  had 
vaguely  felt  that  she  was  dependent  on  him  for  many 
things  ;  but  he  had  helped  her  in  his  frank,  unquestion- 
ing way,  feeling  pleased,  warmed  by  the  flame  of  a 
newly  kindled  spark  of  vanity.  He  preached  to  her  his 
simple  doctrine. 

"  Work  while  work  pleases  you.  Love  it  for  its  own 
sake.  Set  a  great  end  before  you  ;  but  the  attaining  it 
is  the  delight,  not  the  ultimate  attainment.  If  you  think 
of  nothing  but  the  end,  the  reaching  it  is  all  feverish 
unrest  and  toil." 

She  listened,  rebelled,  submitted,  without  loss  of  her 
proud  fearlessness.  Yes  ;  it  was  common  sense,  she 
agreed.  No  one  can  be  humiliated  by  giving  in  to  com- 
mon sense  and  acting  in  accordance  with  it.  Kent  per- 
suaded her  to  finish  the  picture  of  Jack. 

"  It  is  the  best  thing  you  have  done.  There  is  more 
work  in  it — real  work.  It  will  not  take  long  to  finish. 
Then  send  it  for  exhibition." 

He  appealed  to  Winifred,  who  added  her  soft  note  of 
encouragement.  The  picture  was  painted.  Kent  stonily 
refused  to  keep  it  as  his  possession.  There  was  a  heated 
argument.  He  valued  her  gift  and  her  friendship  ;  he 
valued  her  fame  and  life-interest  more.  He  would  not 
refuse  a  replica.  In  the  end  she  acquiesced.  The 
picture  was  accepted  by  the  hanging  committee  of  the 
exhibition,  made  a  stir,  was  sold  for  ^120.  Clytie  was 
launched. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  summer  came.  Clytie  went  abroad  with  the 
Farquharsons,  through  the  old  towns  of  Normandy  and 
Brittany.  Kent  joined  them  at  St.  Malo,  and  spent  his 
month's  holiday  with  them.  This  was  such  a  departure 
from  his  usual  habit  of  solitary  pedestrian  travel  in  the 
rough  wilds  of  Norway,  whither  he  went  every  year,  with 
little  else  than  a  stick  and  a  knapsack,  that  Wither  had 
been  quite  alarmed. 

"  You'll  be  taking  a  holiday  with  me  next,"  he  had 
said. 

But  knowing  the  terms  of  intimacy  between  his  friend 
and  Clytie,  and  knowing  Clytie  herself, — he  had  accom- 
panied Kent  to  the  studio,  at  first  out  of  curiosity  to  see 
what  kind  of  "  being  feminine  "  Kent  had  made  a  friend 
of,  and  afterwards  because  he  liked  to  go  there, — what- 
ever sceptical  imaginings  might  have  exercised  him,  he 
forbore  to  give  them  expression.  He  had  only  looked 
at  Kent,  on  saying  good-bye,  in  his  odd,  half-mocking 
way,  and  had  chuckled  noiselessly  to  himself  when  the 
door  had  closed  upon  Kent's  broad  shoulders. 

Kent  did  not  regret  Norway.  A  charm,  unknown  to 
him  before,  filled  all  the  days.  The  Farquharsons  were 
perfect  travelling  companions  :  Caroline  bright,  satirical, 
helpful,  learned  in  the  ways  of  men  ;  George  easy-going, 
happy  either  to  lounge  in  the  sun  with  a  pipe  and  bandy 
chaff  with  his  wife,  whilst  Kent  and  Clytie  went  their 
own  ways,  or  to  spend  an  antiquarian  afternoon  with 
Kent  in  some  old  Keltic  village.  Clytie  seemed  also  to 
him  to  expand  under  the  sunny  cheerful  influences,  to 
grow  more  feminine,  without  falling  in  his  estimation. 
No  ;  he  did  not  regret  Norway.  He  half  formulated  an 
intention  of  abandoning  it  permanently  and  substituting 
Brittany  as  his  habitual  tramping-ground.  From  the 
first  morning,  when  his  boat  steamed  slowly  through  the 

83 


84  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

narrow  St.  Malo  docks,  and  he  saw  Clytie  waiting  there 
to  meet  him,  he  felt  friendly  towards  it.  The  high 
ramparted  wall,  with  just  the  top-story  row  of  green 
shutters  and  roofs  peeping  above  it,  and  beyond  them 
the  spire  of  the  cathedral ;  the  glimpse  through  the 
sentry-guarded  gate  up  the  narrow  cobble-paved  street, 
gaudy  with  blue  blouses,  red  handkerchiefs,  and  yellow 
oilskins  exposed  all  along  at  shop  doors  ;  on  the  quay 
itself  the  stalls  of  the  hucksters  under  the  lee  of  the  wall, 
and  the  busy  crowd  of  swarthy  Breton  sailors,  porters, 
and  green  uniformed  douaniers ;  and  Clytie  standing, 
fresh  in  her  pure  colouring  heightened  by  the  light 
summer  dress,  in  the  midst  of  this  mellow  setting — all 
the  picture  fixed  itself  as  a  whole  indelibly  upon  his 
mind,  and  caused  a  strange  little  thrill  of  pleasure  to  run 
through  him. 

They  sat  on  the  sands — the  finest  in  the  world,  perhaps, 
when  the  tide  is  low — that  run  in  a  broad,  golden  sweep 
from  crag-bastioned,  grim  old  St.  Malo  to  the  white 
houses  of  Parame,  amid  the  babel  of  bathers  and 
visitors,  watching  the  types  Parisian  and  English,  Kent 
smoking  contentedly,  while  Clytie  filled  her  sketch-book 
with  oddities  of  personality  and  costume.  Three  days 
slipped  away  there  very  pleasantly. 

In  spite  of  its  banality  as  a  pleasure  resort  there  is  a 
grim  charm  about  St.  Malo  that  is  never  quite  forgotten 
by  those  who  have  once  known  it.  It  has  an  air  of 
stability,  of  defiance.  It  is  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
improver,  extender,  and  suburb-maker.  Its  great  walls 
guard  it  as  jealously  on  three  sides  as  the  sea  does  on 
the  other.  Almost  alone  of  populous  cities,  it  can 
never  grow.  As  he  left  with  the  party  to  continue  the 
tour  Kent  felt  this  charm,  although  his  associations  with 
the  city  had  been  of  the  lighter  kind.  They  idled 
through  the  old  towns  :  Dol,  with  its  dark  granite  cathe- 
dral, looking  rather  hewn  out  of  the  rock  than  built ; 
Dinan  on  its  granite  steep  above  the  Ranee,  where 
the  heart  of  du  Guesclin  is  enshrined  ;  Brieux,  Paimpol, 
over  which  Pierre  Loti  has  thrown  the  glamour  of  his 
sentiment ;  Morlaix,  and  so  to  Brest,  with  its  great  harbour 
and  strong  sea  breeze  from  the  Atlantic.  For  Kent  this 
journey  was  an  uninterrupted  pleasure.  No  country  is 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  85 

richer  in  things  old,  worn  by  weather  and  time,  than 
Brittany  :  here  an  old  chapel  built  of  rough  unhewn 
granite ;  here  a  shapeless  wayside  cross  erected  by  some 
pious  crusader  on  the  ragged  hill  slope,  railed  round  to 
prevent  the  encroachments  of  the  broom  and  heather ; 
here  a  Druidic  mass  of  boulders  ;  in  the  cottages  curious 
smoke-dried  strips  of  old  Breton  work,  ancestral  oak 
carvings,  rude  brass  repousee  platters — a  thousand  anti- 
quarian interests  in  this  gray  land.  But  it  is  a  bright 
one  withal.  The  fields  of  yellow  colza  stretch  over  the 
landscape  in  broad  patches  of  glory  ;  the  red-cheeked 
cider  apples  glow  in  the  orchards.  The  chestnut-trees 
in  the  grounds  of  the  old  feudal  chateau,  its  fleched 
gables  dimly  visible,  hang  gratefully  over  the  high 
bounding  wall,  above  the  roadway.  The  peasants  still 
wear  the  picturesque  Breton  dress,  tasselled  hats, 
embroidered  short  jackets,  and  knee-breeches  for  the 
men,  great  white  caps  and  elaborate  kirtles  for  the 
women.  Along  the  coast  the  surf  beats  in  a  line  of 
angry  light  upon  the  rocks,  and  shows  white,  in  the 
midst  of  the  blue,  around  the  islets  out  at  sea.  And 
the  old  fishing  villages  look  as  if  they  were  but 
flotsam  and  jetsam  cast  up  by  Providence  around  the 
gray,  weather-worn  church  that  has  taken  them  to  its 
bosom. 

For  a  few  days  after  they  left  Dinan  Kent  noticed  a 
change  in  Clytie.  She  was  reserved,  thoughtful.  It 
was  not  until  she  appeared  to  have  thrown  off  the  weight 
of  an  obsessing  idea  that  she  grew  buoyant  and  frank 
again.  An  incident  unknown  to  him  had  occurred  at 
Dinan,  shaking  the  girl's  heart  to  its  depths. 

Her  bedroom  in  the  hotel  opened,  like  the  others  on 
the  same  floor,  on  to  a  small  balcony,  the  spaces  in  front 
of  each  room  being  separated  by  a  light  iron  bar.  She 
was  dressing  one  morning  when  her  attention  was 
aroused  by  voices  in  the  next  room,  near  the  balcony. 
Her  own  French  window  was  open.  The  air  was  sunny 
and  still,  and  the  voices  struck  clear. 

"  And  that  is  your  last  word  ?"  asked  a  woman's  voice 
in  French.  She  used  the  familiar  ton.  Her  accents 
were  tearful  and  pleading. 

"  Yes,"  replied  a  man's  voice  brutally.     "  There,  there  ! 


86  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Do  not  make  any  scenes.  I  go  because  it  is  my  good 
pleasure.  What  have  you  to  say  against  it  ? " 

"  But  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  Armand  !  " 

"  Bah  ! "  laughed  the  man,  "  they  say  that  always. 
Here  are  the  thousand  francs." 

Clytie,  who  had  involuntarily  overheard  this  scrap  of 
the  conversation,  hastened  to  shut  the  window.  The 
sounds  died  away  into  murmurs  dimly  perceptible  through 
the  partition  wall.  Then  she  heard  the  room  door  slam 
violently  and  a  heavy  step  tramp  down  the  passage. 

Some  two  hours  later  she  was  sitting  in  the  salon  of 
the  hotel,  reading  the  papers  and  looking  idly  out  upon 
the  market-booths  in  the  little  place.  Kent  and  Far- 
quharson  had  gone  out  together  to  devote  a  scientific 
forenoon  to  the  monuments  of  the  town,  and  Caroline 
was  writing  letters  in  her  own  room.  Clytie  was  alone. 
Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  a  woman,  scarcely  more 
than  a  girl,  appeared  on  the  threshold.  She  made  a  step 
forward,  but  perceiving  Clytie  by  the  window,  she 
hesitated,  irresolute  whether  to  advance  or  retire.  Clytie 
looked  up  quickly,  caught  a  glance  which  she  inter- 
preted as  one  of  appeal. 

"  Oh,  enter,  mademoiselle,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

The  newcomer  murmured  a  "Merci"  entered,  closed 
the  door,  and  sitting  down  on  the  faded  sofa  by  the  wall, 
commenced  turning  over  the  pages  of  an  old  illus- 
trated paper.  Clytie  went  on  with  her  Figaro.  Pres- 
ently her  ear  caught  a  little  sniffling  sob.  She  turned 
round.  Her  companion  was  squeezing  a  wet  rag  of  a 
handkerchief  in  her  hand,  her  head  turned  away  towards 
the  paper  ;  she  was  crying.  Clytie  rose,  moved  softly 
across  the  room.  But  as  she  was  going  through  the 
doorway  she  saw  the  girl,  abandoning  herself  to  her 
misery,  bury  her  face  upon  the  sofa  cushion.  Clytie 
was  touched.  She  went  back  to  the  girl,  laid  her  hand 
softly  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Mademoiselle  ! " 

The  girl  started,  raised  a  pretty,  tear-stained  face, 
looked  at  Clytie  wistfully  out  of  her  light  blue  eyes,  her 
lips  quivering. 

"  You  are  in  trouble,"  said  Clytie. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  you  are  very  good,"  cried   the 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  87 

other — "  out  j  je  sufs  bien  malheureuse.  But  you  must 
leave  me.  You  are  a  young  girl  well  brought  up,  whilst 
I Merci,  mademoiselle  ;  you  can  do  nothing." 

The  voice  struck  a  chord  of  association.  Where  had 
she  heard  it  recently  ?  Quickly  it  flashed  upon  her,  the 
scrap  of  dialogue  she  had  overheard  that  morning.  The 
girl  again  hid  her  face.  The  low-cut  dress,  beloved  by 
Frenchwomen,  disclosed  a  shapely  neck,  on  which 
clustered  coquettishly  a  few  tiny  madcap  curls  below 
the  smooth,  upbrushed,  fair  hair.  Her  figure  was  young 
and  graceful,  relaxed  now  in  the  attitude  of  abandonment. 

Clytie  looked  down  upon  her  wonderingly,  her  heart 
beating.  Her  maidenhood  urged  her  to  fly  ;  a  higher 
sense  of  life  bade  her  stay  a  moment  by  the  sobbing 
figure.  She  had  never,  to  her  knowledge,  been  near  to 
one  of  the  great  unclassed — still  less  spoken.  She 
remembered  the  few  cynical  words  of  the  man  ;  they 
seemed  to  give  her  a  pain  at  the  heart  akin  to  nausea. 
She  remembered  the  pleading  tones  :  Je  t'aime,je  faime 
bien  !  "  and  her  pity  went  forth  upon  the  woman. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said  very  gently. 
"  But  we  may  talk  a  little,  mayn't  we  ?  Perhaps  it  may 
ease  you — a  woman — the  same  age," — Clytie  stumbled  in 
the  foreign  language, — "  and  perhaps  not  so  well  brought 
up — after  all,  a  woman." 

"  Oh,  mademoiselle,  you  do  not  understand.  This 
life  !  "  her  shoulders  shivered  expressively.  "  After  all, 
it  is  bearable  ;  but  when,  with  all  that,  one  loves — ah  ! " 

"  He  is  not  worth  it,"  cried  Clytie.  "  He  is  a  scoun- 
drel— I  know  what  he  is  ! " 

The  girl  raised  her  face  quickly. 

"  You  know  him  ?  You  know  Armand  ?  Ah,  no  ; 
you  spoke  at  random.  Yes,  he  is  base,  cruel,  but  that 
does  not  prevent  it.  Mademoiselle,  you  are  good,  you 
are  sweet.  It  is  not  many  who  would  have  spoken. 
You  will  let  me  sit  here  near  you  for  a  little  ?  Ah, 
mon  Dieu,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  "  you  cannot  imagine 
what  it  is — never,  never  to  talk  to  a  woman  whom  one 
can  respect,  and  who  may  not  betray  you  ;  and  then  the 
only  persons  one  can  respect  are  the  men,  who  despise 
one.  And  even  they — one  can  love  them,  but  they  are 
cowardly,  hard,  selfish  !  " 


88  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA, 

"  There  are  some  good  men,"  observed  Clytie. 

"  That  may  be,"  returned  the  other,  finally  drying  her 
eyes,  and  putting  up  her  hand  to  her  hair  in  tidying 
touches — "  that  may  be,  but  we  don't  often  see  them. 
Oh,  mademoiselle,  I  know  well  that  I  should  be  ashamed 
of  showing  you  what  I  am,  but  when  you  touched  my 
shoulder  it  was  like  a  good  sister  of  the  convent," — 
Clytie  smiled  in  spite  of  herself  at  the  comparison, — 
"  and  it  touched  my  heart." 

"  And  I  too  have  a  confession  to  make,"  said  Clytie, 
gently  interrupting.  "  This  morning — I  overheard — my 
room  is  next  to  yours " 

"  Ah,  it  was  you  who  shut  the  window  ?  " 

"  Yes.  So  I  know,  mademoiselle — at  least  I  can  judge. 
And  are  you  quite  alone  now  ?  " 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  What  would  you  have  ?  He  has  gone,  and  I  must 
go  too.  One  does  not  amuse  oneself  here  alone." 

"  And  where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  Paris.  In  the  middle  of  summer.  It  is  not  gay. 
Everyone  will  know  qu'il  m'a  plantee  l&.  But  one  must 
live.  Ah  !  you  are  happy,  you  other  honest  women  !  " 

She  talked  on,  in  half-cynical,  half-artless  confidence, 
as  is  the  way  of  her  race,  forgetting  in  her  need  of 
expansion  that  her  hearer  was  the  English  girl  well 
brought  up.  She  dilated  on  her  present  trouble,  her 
life  in  Paris,  her  creditors,  the  spitefulness  of  women, 
the  brutality  of  men.  Clytie  listened  with  mingled  feel- 
ings of  horror  and  pity.  She  was  so  young,  this  girl, 
so  fresh  for  all  the  soil  of  Paris,  and  yet  taking,  from  use, 
the  whole  horror  of  her  life  as  a  matter  of  course,  realis- 
ing it  only  in  rare  emotional  moments.  Here  was  a 
rejecter  of  formulas,  of  a  race  that  has  thrown  off  con- 
vention ever  since  Rahab  harboured  the  spies  !  Too 
fragile,  delicate  she  looked  for  this  social  warfare. 
Whither  was  she  tending?  Clytie  had  a  supreme,  lurid 
moment  of  introspection.  Only  two  or  three  such  come 
in  a  lifetime. 

At  last  the  girl  rose  from  the  sofa  in  the  quick  French 
way. 

"  Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,  for  talking  like  this.  I 
had  forgotten.  You  see  well  that  you  could  not  have 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  89 

helped  me  otherwise  than  you  have  done  by  sitting 
by  my  side.  I  must  not  encroach  upon  your  time. 
Adieu,  mademoiselle,  and  thank  you  ;  oh,  a  thousand 
times,  thanks.  I  shall  not  forget  you." 

She  was  going.  Clytie  rose  and  went  towards  her, 
her  face  a  little  flushed,  but  kindness  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  will  shake  hands,  &  I'Anglaise  ?  "  she  said. 

The  girl  looked  her  quickly  in  the  face,  and  then  im- 
pulsively seized  the  proffered  hand  in  both  hers  and 
kissed  it  twice  rapidly.  Then  she  ran  from  the  room. 

Clytie  went  back  to  her  seat  by  the  window  and  looked 
out  upon  the  market-sellers.  But  she  did  not  see  much, 
as  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

She  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Farquharson  of  this  incident,  but 
kept  it  in  her  heart  as  a  secret  and  strange  revelation 
of  life — something  precious,  mysterious,  awful.  During 
her  drive  with  the  others  in  the  afternoon  she  was 
strangely  silent.  Kent  rallied  her  on  her  depression  in 
his  bluff,  kind-hearted  manner.  She  smiled  absently, 
complained  of  a  headache,  then  shivered  with  a  wave  of 
recollection.  For  days  the  spectre  haunted  her,  some- 
times looking  at  her  through  the  light  blue  eyes  of  the 
girl,  and  sometimes  taking  a  dual  form,  in  which  the 
coarse  drudge  features  of  the  mother  of  Jack,  the  model, 
were  dimly  visible.  And  a  question  hummed  in  her  ears  : 
"  Was  this  the  aspect  of  life  that  men  kept  so  jealously 
hidden  from  women  ?" 

But  Clytie  was  young  and  vigorous,  with  fresh  bright 
blood  leaping  in  her  veins.  The  thrill  of  the  salt  breeze 
and  the  whole-hearted  laughter  of  her  friends  soon  pre- 
vented these  imaginings  from  becoming  morbid,  and 
gradually  the  first  sharp  impression  dulled  more  or  less 
down  to  the  level  of  her  other  experiences  of  things. 
She  gave  herself  up  again  to  the  freedom  and  gaiety  of 
the  trip,  to  the  unfeigned  delight  of  Kent,  who  had  been 
beginning  to  wonder  whether,  for  unknown  reasons, 
some  coolness  had  arisen  between  them. 

He  forbore  to  allude  to  the  subject  until  the  night 
when  they  were  all  returning  together  from  St.  Malo  to 
Southampton.  He  had  found  her  a  sheltered  corner  of 
the  upper  deck,  rigged  up  a  screen  of  rugs,  comfortably 


90  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

established  her  in  a  canvas  chair  with  many  wraps. 
Most  of  the  passengers  had  gone  below.  They  were 
almost  alone.  The  voices  of  two  men  in  an  opposite 
corner  came  vaguely  out  of  the  darkness.  All  was  still 
save  for  the  continuous  rattle  and  wash,  which  at  sea 
forms  a  strange  kind  of  silence  in  itself. 

"  Aren't  you  sorry  it  is  over  ? "  asked  Clytie  from  the 
dimness  of  her  wraps.  "  We  did  nothing  very  wonder- 
ful, but  it  has  been  very  pleasant — a  thing  to  look  back 
upon." 

"  '  A  garnered  joy  for  after-time.'  " 

"  You  are  waxing  poetical." 

"Oh,  that's  Wither.  He  was  poetical  in  his  youth. 
You  would  hardly  think  it  of  him.  I  have  always 
thought  that  line  rather  pretty.  Anyhow,  it  is  true  in 
the  present  case." 

"  And  we  haven't  quarrelled,"  said  Clytie,  "  in  spite 
of  the  maxim,  '  If  you  want  to  lose  a  friend,  travel  with 
him.'  But  I  don't  think  I  could  quarrel  with  you. 
You  wrap  yourself  round  with  such  imperturbable 
superiority. 

"  The  metaphor  is  mixed,  but  proceed,"  interrupted 
Kent. 

"  Well,  it's  not  worth  while  playing  to  such  a  bad 
house." 

"  I  don't  see  what  we  should  have  to  quarrel  about," 
returned  Kent,  laughing.  "  We  each  give  the  other 
credit  for  independent  opinions  ;  and  as  for  action,  if 
you  wanted  to  go  to  the  right  and  I  to  the  left,  I  sup- 
pose I  should  give  in  and  let  you  have  your  way — if  it 
were  not  contrary  to  common  sense." 

"  And  if  it  were  ?     If  it  were  simply  idiotic  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  should  go  with  you  then,  to  keep  you  out 
of  harm's  way." 

"  Thank  you,"  murmured  Clytie  rather  touched,  look- 
ing up  restfully  at  the  stars. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Kent  puffed  at  his  pipe. 
The  glow  attracted  George  Farquharson,  who  had  just 
come  up  on  the  deck  and  was  groping  about  for  them  in 
the  darkness. 

"  Going  to  stay  here  all  night  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Most  of  it,"  replied  Clytie. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  91 

"  Kent  making  you  comfortable  ?  " 

Clytie  murmured  an  easeful  affirmative,  and  Far- 
quharson,  nodding  a  good-night,  disappeared  into  the 
darkness. 

"  Apropos  of  quarrelling,"  said  Kent  after  a  while. 
"  Do  you  know,  I  thought  once,  for  a  few  days,  you 
were  vexed  with  me  for  something — after  we  left  Dinan. 
Were  you  ? " 

Clytie  felt  the  words  like  a  touch  of  ice.  Why  had 
Kent  blundered  so  tactlessly? 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  mention  that  ?  "  she  cried.  "  The 
only  painful  thing  in  all  the  trip.  Something  that  I  saw 
at  Dinan — I  was  put  out.  Was  I  very  disagreeable  ?  It 
did  not  refer  to  you  in  any  way,  dear  friend." 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  have  touched  on  a  sore  place," 
replied  Kent.  "  I  find  I  have  a  good  deal  to  learn  in 
these  matters.  Will  you  make  a  compact  with  me  to  tell 
me  if  ever  I  offend  you  ?  Your  friendship  has  grown  so 
valuable  and  dear  a  thing  to  me  that  the  idea  of  running 
the  risk  of  losing  it  makes  me — what  shall  I  say  ?  Well, 
I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  don't  often  talk  like  this, — senti- 
ment conies  out  of  me  very  awkwardly, — but  when  I  do 
say  anything  of  the  sort  I  mean  it.  Believe  me." 

Clytie  put  out  her  gloved  hand  and  touched  him 
lightly  on  the  arm.  She,  too,  felt  that  she  had  certain 
need  of  him.  A  little  thrill  of  tenderness  passed  through 
her  as  she  turned  her  head  towards  him  to  reply. 

"  Didn't  I  call  you  '  dear  friend  '  just  now  ?  And  I 
meant  it,  too.  You  are  too  honest,  too  single-hearted, 
ever  to  offend  me,  as  you  say.  If  I  am  ever  rebellious 
with  you  it  will  be  my  own  fault,  and  I  shall  know  it. 
And  as  I  really  have  got  some  common  sense,  I  shall  be 
sorry  for  it.  But  you  won't  expect  me  to  tell  you  so 
every  time,  will  you  ?  You  will  have  to  take  it  for 
granted." 

"  You  always  make  yourself  out  worse  than  you  are," 
replied  Kent.  "Very  few  people  know  you.  The  Far- 
quharsons,  myself,  Winifred,  do.  I  should  like  to  go 
with  you  wherever  you  go,  and  tell  folks  not  to  believe 
you,  to  prove  to  them  what  a " 

"Oh,  stop  !  stop  !"  cried  Clytie,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  This  sojourn  in  the  land  of  compliments  has  infected 


92  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

you.  Oh,  no  ;  I  am  ordinary  ;  not  bad,  not  good. 
You  see,  if  I  had  had  anybody  to  care  for  specially,  and 
who  cared  for  me,  I  might  have  shown  up  differently.  I 
have  hardly  had  a  chance  of  seeming  otherwise  than 
selfish.  Opportunity  makes  the  saint  as  much  as  it 
makes  the  thief." 

Kent  meditated,  framing  a  reply.  The  right  words 
would  not  come  until  it  seemed  that  too  long  an  interval 
had  elapsed.  There  was  another  silence — one  of  those 
pleasant  ones  between  friends  when  they  feel  in  sym- 
pathy. Clytie  at  last  broke  it. 

"  Would  you  have  had  such  a  conversation  as  this 
with  a  man  friend?" 

"  No — at  least — well,  no.     Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  The  idea  occurred  to  me,"  replied 
Clytie. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  long  autumn  months  rolled  on,  bringing  little 
new  to  Clytie  or  to  Kent.  Clytie  continued  to  paint  her 
small  genre  pictures,  but  with  a  more  certain  touch,  a 
restraint  which  a  deeper  insight  into  life  compelled. 
They  did  not  satisfy  her  now,  however,  as  they  used  to. 
She  had  more  articulate  longings  after  an  art  which 
should  be  higher,  more  comprehensive,  more  responsive 
to  certain  subtler  and  at  the  same  time  more  stirring 
impulses  within  her. 

"  I  want  to  paint  something  that  may  live,"  she  said 
to  Kent,  "  something  I  can  throw  my  whole  soul  into, 
something  I  can  look  at  when  it  is  finished  and  say : 
'  There,  that  is  final ;  that  expresses  consummately  every- 
thing I  have  ever  felt  and  dreamed.' " 

"  If  you  can  ever  say  that,  you  will  cease  to  be  an 
artist,"  he  replied  in  his  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  I  must  try.  And  the  subject,  the 
subject  ?  " 

"  Wait,"  said  Kent.  "  If  it  ever  comes,  it  will  do  so 
of  itself." 

Clytie  waited,  but  the  subject  did  not  come.  Mean- 
while she  had  her  hands  full  with  orders,  both  for 
pictures  and  for  magazine  illustrations.  Her  life  was 
full,  as  far  as  work  could  make  it.  Winifred  came 
regularly  to  the  studio,  as  usual,  cheering  her  with  sweet 
companionship.  She  had  spent  her  summer  holiday  at 
the  seaside,  treating  out  of  her  own  purse  her  two  little 
brothers  to  a  holiday.  She  came  back  with  glowing 
reminiscences  of  her  adventures,  the  humorous  naughti- 
nesses of  the  children,  the  odds  and  ends  of  character 
she  had  met  with.  Her  only  regret  was  that  her  dear 
Clytie  had  not  been  there  too. 

"  I  should  have  thrown  those  horrid  children,  Reggie 
and  Arthur,  into  the  sea  !  "  exclaimed  Clytie. 

1  93 


94  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't.  They  simply  adore  you. 
They  are  nice  children,  aren't  they,  now  ?" 

"  You  little  goose  !  "  cried  Clytie,  kissing  the  warm 
brown  cheek.  "They  are  like  you,  the  sweetest  little 
children  in  the  world.  When  are  they  coming  to  tea  ?  " 

These  teas  in  the  studio  were  red-letter  days  for 
Winifred's  brothers  and  sisters.  They  worshipped  Clytie, 
who  had  keen  sympathy  with  the  unconventionalities 
of  childhood.  She  made  grotesque  caricatures  of  them, 
at  which  they  screamed  with  laughter,  or  sat  on  the 
hearthrug  with  them  and  talked  the  nonsense  that  bright 
children  love.  Their  joy  was  complete  if  Kent  came  in. 
They  called  him  "  Kent,"  took  complete  possession  of 
him,  presented  him  to  Clytie  as  a  pet  trifle  they  carried 
about  with  them.  He,  too,  was  fond  of  these  debauches, 
and  seldom  missed  attending  them  if  he  could  leave  the 
Museum  in  time.  He  loved  to  see  Clytie  take  her  part 
in  them.  She  seemed  to  him  even  more  sweet  and 
womanly  than  Winifred  when  she  had  a  child  on  her  lap, 
and  her  dark  red  hair  was  touching  the  black  ruffled 
curls.  He  told  her  so  one  day,  and  the  colour  came  into 
her  cheeks  as  she  laughed. 

Another  occasional  visitor  in  the  studio  was  Treherne, 
the  young  clergyman  whom  Clytie  had  met  at  the  Far- 
quharson's  numismatic  dinner-party.  Kent  and  herself 
had  run  across  him  at  a  Bond  Street  gallery  where  some 
paintings  by  the  impressionists  Degas  and  Monet  were 
on  view.  He  was  looking  ill  and  overworked.  He 
replied  to  their  inquiries  that  he  had  been  forced  to  give 
up  his  North  London  parish  and  take  lighter  duties  near 
Victoria.  As  he  lived  in  her  neighbourhood,  he  hoped 
that  Clytie  would  allow  him  to  call  one  day  and  see  her 
pictures  ;  "  Jack  "  at  the  exhibition  had  aroused  his 
admiration.  Clytie  readily  gave  him  her  "day,"  when 
Miss  Marchpane  and  herself  were  at  home  to  their  friends, 
and  hoped  he  would  come.  He  called,  found  a  certain 
charm  in  the  bright  talk  of  the  studio,  exhilarating  after 
the  dull  rounds  among  his  parishioners,  and  soon  be- 
came a  constant  visitor.  Perhaps  the  charm  of  a  pair  of 
soft  brown  eyes  attracted  him  more  than  he  thought  of  con- 
fessing. Towards  the  end  of  the  year,  however,  he  bought, 
through  a  dealer,  two  of  Winifred's  dainty  pictures. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  95 

The  days  shortened,  the  painting  light  grew  less  and 
less,  and  the  time  came  for  Clytie  to  pay  her  Christmas 
visit  to  Durdleham.  She  had  not  been  there  for  a  year, 
and  her  heart  longed  at  times  for  the  familiar  faces  and 
the  voices  of  her  own  kith  and  kin.  She  thought  that, 
perhaps,  now  she  had  grown  older,  her  father  and  sisters 
would  think  her  mode  of  life  less  unnatural,  less  likely  to 
result  in  moral  shipwreck.  The  letters,  too,  she  had 
been  receiving  from  them  lately  were  kinder,  more 
affectionate  in  tone.  Mrs.  Blather  longed  to  have  her 
dear  Clytie  back  amongst  them  once  more,  and  Janet 
wrote  touchingly  of  the  vacant  chair  at  the  dinner  table. 
Clytie  anticipated  much  quiet  pleasure  from  her  visit. 
The  need  of  an  attitude  of  rebellion  was  past,  and  she 
could  throw  herself  lovingly,  with  no  fear  of  compromis- 
ing her  independence,  into  all  the  mild  interests  of  the 
household.  There  were  times  when  a  tenderer,  softer 
chord  vibrated  in  her  heart,  suggesting  sadly  the  sweet- 
ness of  home  and  loved  family  ties.  She  was  human, 
with  the  foolish  human  craving  for  things  that  are  not. 
She  could  not  abandon  her  free  artistic  life  ;  but  if  she 
could  fill  it  with  gentler,  softer  graces !  In  these  moods 
she  clung  to  Winifred,  loving  her  for  this  element  of 
sweet  womanliness  she  brought  into  the  rooms  in  the 
King's  Road  that  were  her  home.  It  was  with  this  range 
of  feelings  uppermost  in  her  heart  that  she  went  to 
Durdleham. 

For  the  first  few  days  after  Clyde's  departure  Kent 
laboured  honestly  and  doggedly  in  his  old  way.  But 
gradually  he  began  to  feel  a  lack  of  interest  in  his  pur- 
suits, to  be  vaguely  conscious  that  the  conditions  of 
things  were  upset,  and  then  he  wished  that  Clytie  had 
not  gone. 

One  evening  he  was  sitting  in  his  room  with  a  litter  of 
proof-sheets  lying  idly  before  him.  He  felt  depressed. 
It  was  a  new  sensation.  It  puzzled  him,  annoyed  him, 
made  him  angry  with  himself,  like  a  man's  first  unsus- 
pected attack  of  the  gout.  He  rose  and  walked  about. 
His  fire  had  nearly  gone  out,  his  lamp  had  been  flaring 
and  the  room  was  filled  with  its  acrid  smoke.  He  could 
not  open  the  window,  for  the  sleet  and  rain  were  beating 
against  the  panes.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  watching 


g6  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  water  dribble  outside  down  the  glass.  Then  he 
turned  away  impatiently,  seeking  solace  from  his  book- 
backs  and  pictures.  But  they  seemed  to  look  back 
upon  him  unsympathetically,  as  if  reproaching  him  for 
the  bare  floor,  the  untidy  dresser,  and  the  cheerless 
hearth.  He  rekindled  his  fire,  filled  a  pipe,  and  sat 
down  to  think. 

Kent  was  not  given  to  introspection.  His  external 
interests  in  life  were  too  engrossing  for  him  to  think 
deeply  or  continuously  about  himself.  Such  a  habit  of 
mind  he  used  vehemently  to  deprecate  as  morbid,  ego- 
tistical. But  now  this  strange  depression,  this  vague 
sense  of  loss,  compelled  him  to  account  for  it  to  his 
reason.  He  began  in  a  sober,  materialistic  way  to 
review  his  general  health  (there  are  philosophers  amongst 
us  who  refer  all  moods  to  the  liver,  not  looking  upon  it, 
however,  like  the  ancients,  as  the  seat  of  the  affections  !), 
to  question  some  little  disappointments  he  had  had  with 
regard  to  his  great  work,  and  to  dwell  upon  the  futility 
of  existence — the  suggestion  of  which  he  should  have 
been  logical  enough  to  see  was  the  result  and  not  the 
cause  of  his  state  of  mind.  But  he  was  not  logical. 
Few  men  are  when  the  great  facts  of  inner  life  are  in 
question  ;  for  in  the  course  of  logic  "  none  of  us  would 
see  salvation,"  as  far  as  this  world's  happiness  is  con- 
cerned. Gradually  a  truth  dawned  upon  him.  He 
missed  the  ever-ready  companionship  he  had  enjoyed 
for  nearly  a  year.  He  missed  Clytie.  He  found  that 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  since  he  was  a  baby  he  had 
been  depending  for  something  on  a  woman.  He  had 
never  realised  until  then  the  strength  of  that  unknown 
subtle  influence,  the  withdrawal  of  which  left  him  so  weak, 
so  unable  to  put  forth  all  his  powers.  At  first  he  thought 
that  it  was  merely  the  abrupt  interruption  of  pleasant 
habits,  the  sudden  jerk  out  of  a  well-oiled  groove. 
Telling  himself  he  was  satisfied  with  this  solution,  he 
resolutely  went  back  to  his  writing  and  began  to  correct 
his  proof-sheets.  But  gradually  his  attention  wandered 
again.  These  sudden  impulses  to  work  against  the  grain 
soon  spend  themselves  out  and  produce  greater  lassitude 
than  before. 

He  tossed  down  his  pencil  in  disgust  and  swung  round 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  97 

towards  the  fire.  It  was  Clytie  herself,  then,  that  he 
missed.  He  missed  her  in  spite  of  her  being  a  woman, 
he  told  himself.  And  yet  the  picture  rose  before  his 
mind  of  Clytie's  dainty  room  and  Clytie  sitting  there 
opposite  to  him,  her  hand,  with  falling  lace  at  wrist, 
pressed  into  the  softness  of  her  hair.  Why  had  she  not 
written  a  line  to  him  ? 

Yes,  he  missed  her.  But  why  should  that  make  his 
work  distasteful  ?  He  was  puzzled.  One  thing  alone  was 
clear,  his  loneliness  was  growing  intolerable.  He  threw 
on  his  waterproof,  and,  leaving  his  work,  trudged  through 
the  rain  to  the  "  monastery,"  at  South  Kensington. 

Wither  was  alone.  Fairfax  and  Greene  were  dining 
out.  The  little  man  had  been  too  lazy  and  sybaritic  to 
face  the  cold  and  wet  outside.  He  had  clad  himself  in 
pyjamas  and  dressing-gown,  and  was  reading  a  French 
novel  on  the  couch  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  fire.  His 
diminutive  figure  looked  absurdly  small  and  wizened  in 
his  loose  wrap.  He  nodded  affectionately  at  Kent,  ex- 
plained briefly  the  fact  of  his  being  alone,  and,  while 
Kent  was  hunting  in  a  familiar  corner  for  the  pair  of 
slippers  always  there  in  readiness  for  his  use,  went  on 
with  his  reading. 

"  Get  me  some  whiskey,  old  chap,"  he  said  without 
looking  up.  "  I  have  been  dying  for  some  this  last  hour 
and  I  have  been  too  lazy  to  stir  off  the  sofa." 

Kent,  as  usual,  supplied  Wither's  wants  and  poured 
out  a  glass  for  himself. 

"  Lazy  little  beggar,"  he  said  kindly  as  he  sat  down 
in  the  great  saddle-bag  chair.  "  How  do  you  manage 
to  get  through  your  work  ?  " 

Wither  laughed. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  better  than  to  ask  me  that." 

It  was  a  tradition  in  the  "  monastery  "  that  Wither 
never  did  any  work.  They  paid  him  at  his  office  for 
lending  it  a  gentlemanly  tone.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  like 
most  clever,  lazy  men,  he  generally  did  an  ordinary 
man's  day's  work  in  a  few  hours. 

He  stretched  himself  out  luxuriously  and  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"  Have  you  ever  read  this  ?  "  he  asked,  holding  up  his 
novel.  It  was  Bourget's  "  Cruelle  £nigme." 


98  AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

Kent  nodded. 

"  I  skimmed  it  through  here  one  night  while  waiting 
for  you.  I  have  no  patience  with  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Possibly  not,"  remarked  Wither,  "  but  that's  a  fact 
about  yourself,  and  not  about  the  book." 

<4 1  don't  believe  it  is  human  life,"  replied  Kent. 
"  People  can't  make  animal  passion  the  keynote  of  their 
lives  nowadays." 

"  Why  not  nowadays  ?  " 

"  The  conditions  of  life  prevent  it.  The  savage  has 
furious  brute  instincts,  which  he  gratifies  occasionally, 
when  his  mind  is  not  taken  up  with  fighting  and  hunt- 
ing for  his  food.  It  may  be  the  guiding  principle  in  a 
splendid  barbarism  like  some  Eastern  courts,  where 
men  have  little  else  to  think  of.  But  in  our  modern 
civilisation  there  are  other  interests  too  absorbing.  The 
hurry  of  life  is  too  great." 

"  What  about  the  empty-minded  women  you  are 
always  railing  at  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  absorbed  in  their  futilities — at  least 
most  of  them,"  he  added,  correcting  himself  ;  "  but  even 
when  idle  they  are  not  beasts.  Now  this  woman  you 
are  reading  about  is  a  beast." 

Wither  eyed  him  curiously. 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense,  old  chap.  If  she  had 
been  simply  that,  she  would  not  have  been  a  problem  to 
the  psychologist.  The  enigma  was  the  sudden  burst  into 
animalism  in  the  midst  of  a  love  that  was  almost  idyllic." 

"  Bosh  !  "  said  Kent.  "  It  was  the  same  old  hideous 
adultery." 

"  Oh,  well  !  if  you  go  on  those  lines,  I  am  done," 
replied  Wither,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  I  thought 
we  were  a  little  more  advanced  in  our  ideas  in  this 
establishment." 

"  You  know  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Kent,  puffing 
violently  at  his  pipe.  "  The  legality  of  the  connection 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  the  eternal  coupling  of 
the  male  and  the  female  that  revolts  me.  Pah  !  They 
might  as  well  write  a  novel  on  the  loves  of  the  pastures." 

"  If  I  could  write  French,  I  should  like  to  try  it,"  said 
Wither.  "  It  would  be  interesting." 

"  There  is  too  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  written  and 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  99 

talked  about,"  said  Kent.  "  It's  sickening.  It's  degra- 
dation of  humanity." 

"  Well,  it's  not  uncommon,"  said  Wither,  with  a 
sphinxlike  smile  playing  round  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  as  he  gazed  upwards  at  the  cigarette  smoke. 

"  Look  here,  Wither,"  said  Kent  ;  "  I  have  a  higher 
faith  in  humanity.  You  profess  to  be  a  cynic,  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  you  delight  in  calling  yourself  non- 
moral.  That's  all  foolishness,  I  know.  You  are  the 
kindest  hearted  little  chap  in  the  world.  But  can  you, 
as  a  man  of  intellectual  tastes,  sympathise  with  all 
this  animalism  ?  " 

Wither  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  bending  forward 
laid  his  hand  on  Kent's  knee. 

"  My  dear  old  boy,"  he  said,  with  more  earnestness 
than  he  generally  displayed,  "  I  do  call  myself  a  man  of 
the  world,  for  I'm  in  it  and  I  love  it,  and  I  have  a  very 
decent  bowing  acquaintance  as  well  with  its  pals,  the 
Flesh  and  the  Devil.  I  know  something  of  men,  and  as 
for  women,  it  has  been  my  lot  to  have  been  petted  by  a 
good  few — my  size  lends  itself  to  that  sort  of  thing.  In 
fact,  Gulliver  with  the  Brobdingnag  maids  of  honour  is 
not  in  it  with  me.  I  know  all  about  'em  ;  and  I  tell  you, 
old  chap,  that  the  Beast,  sometimes  with  a  big  B  and 
sometimes  in  diamond  type,  lies  in  the  nature  of  us  all. 
There  is  not  a  living  being  with  pure  blood  in  his  or  her 
veins  who  is  not  overmastered  at  times  by  the  principle 
of  sex.  You  scoff  at  Bourget  as  a  writer  of  morbid 
and  impossible  fiction.  Look  at  your  daily  papers. 
Don't  you  see  parsons  of  hitherto  blameless  lives 
running  off  with  their  cooks,  virtuous  women  ruining 
their  lives  and  their  husbands'  for  the  sake  of  some 
Hercules  of  a  scoundrel — just  as  the  patrician  ladies  in 
Rome  went  mad  over  the  charioteers  in  the  circus  ! 
Man  alive  !  it  is  the  Beast,  the  Beast  that  may  slumber 
in  an  old  maid's  bosom  until  she  is  sixty  and  then  drive 
her  into  the  arms  of  her  footman.  How  otherwise  have 
you  accounted  for  these  things  ? " 

"  I  have  not  tried,"  replied  Kent  simply.  "  They 
have  not  interested  me.  They  are  diseases  of  the  brain, 
for  the  physiologist  to  study,  like  suicide  and  murder. 
I  don't  believe  in  them  in  normal  everyday  life." 


100  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  only  by  Wither's 
request  that  Kent  should  put  some  coals  on  the  fire,  and 
the  rattling  of  the  operation.  Wither  resumed  his  read- 
ing and  Kent  pulled  at  his  pipe  in  silence.  At  last  the 
former  looked  up  and  said  suddenly  : 

"  Why  do  you  think  people  marry  ?  " 

"  That's  funny,"  replied  Kent,  with  a  slight  start.  "  I 
was  just  wondering  myself.  I  don't  know  :  money,  com- 
panionship, family,  idiocy — God  knows  what." 

"  It  has  always  struck  me  that  you  would  be  the  first 
of  us  to  go,"  said  the  other  in  pure,  idle  maliciousness. 

"  I  ? "  cried  Kent,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "  I  marry  ! 
give  up  my  work,  procreate  children  I  couldn't  support  ! 
Have  to  kiss  and  pet  and  fondle  a  woman " 

"  Well,  you  need  not  do  that  unless  you  like,"  replied 
Wither,  laughing  in  his  gnomelike  way.  "  She  might 
expect  it,  but  she  would  be  soon  consoled  by  the 
blessedness  of  pure  spirituality." 

Kent's  reply  was  interrupted  by  the  return  of  the 
absentees,  Fairfax,  the  doctor,  and  Greene. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  fellows  have  come  back,"  said 
Kent  ;  "  Wither  has  been  drivelling  on  his  favourite  topic 
until  I  was  begining  to  loathe  him." 

"  He's  an  immoral  little  wretch,"  said  the  doctor, 
throwing  his  greatcoat  on  Wither's  curled-up  body — "  a 
pocket  Mephistopheles.  We  keep  him  here  as  a  kind  of 
Familiar.  Oh,  what  rot  dining  out  is  !  "  he  added,  with  a 
yawn  and  a  stretch  as  he  seated  his  burly  form  on  the  foot 
of  the  couch.  "  I  wish  I  had  stayed  at  home." 

"  I  wish  you  had,"  said  Kent.  "  Let  us  have  just  one 
rubber  before  I  go.  There  is  time." 

But  Kent  walked  home  that  night  with  a  new  trouble 
at  his  heart  that  kept  him  awake  a  great  part  of  the 
night. 

Meanwhile  Clytie  was  not  enjoying  herself  at  Durdle- 
ham.  At  first  there  were  eager  embraces,  trifling  tender- 
nesses and  solicitudes.  The  dear  prodigal  had  returned, 
but  the  fatted  calf  was  killed  discreetly,  lest  it  should 
convey  a  husk-flavoured  reproach.  Grace  and  Janet 
bubbled  over  with  light  Durdleham  gossip,  seeking  to 
interest,  and  Clytie  earnestly  and  sympathetically  sought 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  IOI 

to  be  in  touch  with  her  surroundings.  It  was  a  real  heart- 
felt effort  on  both  sides  towards  harmony.  But  it  soon 
became  patent  that  these  efforts  were  unavailing.  Clytie 
saw  the  old  prejudices  barring  her  at  every  turn.  She 
recognised  with  the  bitterness  of  disillusionment  that  she 
was  the  bit  of  grit  in  the  family  machinery,  stopping  the 
smoothness  of  its  working.  As  long  as  she  identified 
herself  with  Durdleham  interests  things  went  well  ;  but 
as  soon  as  she,  in  her  turn,  ventured  to  sketch  the  bright 
incidents  in  her  town  life  she  felt  a  check  in  the  current 
of  mutual  sympathy.  If  she  was  reserved,  her  sisters 
complained.  They  ought  to  know  something  of  her 
friends,  her  occupations.  When  she  was  expansive  they 
shrank  cold  and  crablike  into  their  mail  of  prejudice. 

Her  intimacy  with  a  strange  Bohemian  man  was  a 
thorn  in  the  side  of  the  family.  Mr.  Davenant  con- 
sidered it  extremely  injudicious,  and  Mrs.  Blather 
whispered  to  him  that  she  scarcely  thought  it  moral. 
Janet  was  too  horrified  to  allude  directly  to  the  circum- 
stance. But,  in  her  neat,  prim  bedchamber,  she  prayed 
to  the  Almighty  to  lead  her  erring  sister  out  of  the  paths 
of  temptation.  She  duly  informed  Clytie  of  this  act  of 
piety,  and  when  Clytie  burst  into  laughter  that  was 
nearer  to  tears  than  to  merriment,  left  the  room  in  virtu- 
ous indignation. 

Clytie  could  not  help  confessing  to  herself  that  she 
longed  for  Kent's  companionship,  with  its  broader  sym- 
pathies and  inspiring  influences,  but  the  view  the  house- 
hold took  of  it  pained  her  with  a  sense  of  aching  discom- 
fort, and  made  her  feel  a  strange  diffidence  in  writing  to 
him  as  she  had  promised.  She  at  last  addressed  him  a 
short  little  note,  stiff  and  constrained,  which  reached  him 
the  morning  after  his  conversation  with  Wither  and  did 
not  help  to  cheer  him.  Too  proud  to  wait  for  an  oppor- 
tunity of  posting  this  letter  herself,  she  placed  it  on  the 
hall  slab  together  with  the  rest  of  the  outgoing  corre- 
spondence of  the  family.  Although  a  hundred  letters 
might  have  lain  there  for  post  without  any  one  of  them 
attracting  Mrs.  Blather's  attention, — she  was  too  pure- 
minded  a  gentlewoman  for  idle  curiosity  to  be  one  of  her 
failings, — it  was  too  good  an  opportunity  for  the  imps 
who  seem  sometimes  to  regulate  human  affairs  to  let 


102  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

slip,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  Mrs.  Blather's  eye  fell 
upon  the  address. 

"  So  you  are  keeping  up  a  violent  correspondence 
with  that  man,"  she  remarked  acidly  to  Clytie.  It  is  the 
way  of  some  women  to  exaggerate. 

Clytie  bit  her  lip,  checking  an  impulsive  answer. 
What  was  the  use  of  a  retort  ? 

Women  of  broad,  liberal  education,  with  interests 
beyond  the  nursery,  still-room,  and  the  afternoon-tea 
table,  are  known  to  live  together,  like  men,  in  compara- 
tive harmony.  They  have  learned  the  lesson  the  higher, 
broader  life  teaches  of  rising  or  declining  instinctively  to 
another  being's  plane  of  thought  or  feeling.  It  is  hardly 
a  fault  of  sex  that  women  are  petty,  spiteful,  and  intoler- 
ant. When  the  conditions  of  life  are  narrow  and  illiberal 
any  human  being,  man  or  woman,  runs  the  risk  of  being 
shaped  by  them.  And  that  is  why  Mrs.  Blather  and 
Janet,  good,  upright  women  according  to  their  lights, 
subordinated  their  affection  to  their  principles,  and 
stood  away  shocked  from  their  sister.  Their  traditional 
ideals  of  femininity  had  been  sinned  against.  The 
crime  was  all  but  unpardonable.  It  was  always  present 
with  them,  always  assuming  fresh,  distorted  shapes. 
They  were  on  a  different  plane  from  Clytie,  and  viewed  all 
her  actions  in  a  false  perspective. 

Clytie  was  hurt,  wounded  in  her  womanly  pride.  She 
knew  that  there  was  much  clay  in  her  composition,  and 
often  felt  with  chastening  self-abasement  how  much 
nearer  the  angels  Winifred  was  than  herself.  Yet  she 
was  accustomed  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  free  from 
reproach.  Winifred,  Kent,  the  Farquharsons,  and  others 
of  her  friends  might  touch  with  light,  tender  finger  on 
here  and  there  an  imperfection  in  her  character  or  con- 
duct ;  for  this  she  was  grateful,  knowing  the  deeper  feel- 
ings of  esteem  and  respect  that  prompted.  But  to  move 
in  a  circle  where  she  was  looked  upon  as  a  black  sheep, 
as  a  girl  on  the  path  to  unutterable  abysses,  galled 
her  to  the  quick,  sent  the  hot  blood  mounting  in  stinging 
waves  to  her  cheek,  leaving  the  heart  cold.  Yet  she  had 
learned  not  to  blame  her  sisters  over  much.  She  had 
lost  her  militant  scorn  of  Jacob.  Kent  had  taught  her 
that  although  Esau  might  possess  the  higher  birthright 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  103 

which  no  bartering  of  pottage  could  alienate,  there  was 
still  saving  grace  in  the  stolen  birthright  which  Jacob 
guarded  so  jealously.  But  this  knowledge  did  not  make 
her  heart  less  sore. 

The  happiest  time  in  this  Christmas  visit  was  when 
she  could  get  away  into  the  old  lumber-attic  in  which 
she  had  dreamed  so  many  girlish  dreams.  It  had  long 
been  dismantled  of  the  Liberty  curtains,  Persian  rugs, 
and  cheap  Japaneseries  that  had  lent  it  the  suggestion 
of  artistic  atmosphere  the  girl  of  eighteen  had  craved. 
It  was  bare  now,  except  for  a  table  and  chair  and  a  few 
odds  and  ends  of  artist's  materials,  but  a  fire  could  be 
laid  in  the  grate  to  make  things  look  cheery,  and  there 
was  still  the  deeply  recessed  attic-window  where  she 
could  stand  and  look  out  over  the  same  drear  landscape. 
It  was  only  the  ordinary  midland  succession  of  fields, 
now  black  with  winter,  and  pastures  through  which  the 
river  ran,  its  course  only  indicated  by  the  fringing  line 
of  pollards  and  willows.  Away  on  the  slope  to  the 
west  rose  a  clump  of  trees  from  which  peeped  a  few 
houses  and  a  church  spire,  the  little  village  of  Wexwith. 
In  the  foreground  ran  the  highroad  skirted  with  new 
red-brick  cottages,  a  touch  of  sordidness  added  by  man 
to  the  ungenerous  dreariness  of  nature.  Once  this  had 
affected  Clytie  with  a  sense  of  the  unutterable  melan- 
choly of  things.  The  young  are  prone  to  be  so  affected. 
They  are  rather  proud  when  they  realise  it  ;  it  is  a  kind 
of  youthful  vanity.  But  Clytie,  like  the  wiser  among  us, 
sought  brightness  as  she  grew  older,  and  although  she 
could  not  consider  the  landscape  cheerful,  looked  at  it 
only  through  the  memories  of  five  years.  Every  spot  had 
associations  for  her.  There  was  the  cottage  where  she 
had  seen  the  little  bully  strike  his  playmate,  the  original 
conception  of  the  picture  that  had  helped  to  cause  her 
welcome  banishment  from  home.  Next  to  it  used  to  live 
the  old  beldame  who  threw  out  of  doors  the  custards 
and  jellies  that  Janet  with  angelic  perseverance  used  to 
take  her.  What  cruel  mockery  she  used  to  make  of  Janet 
in  those  days  !  Now  she  submissively  helped  to  carry  the 
custards.  Behind  the  swelling  uplands  over  the  village 
the  sun  set,  a  red  ball  in  the  wintry  sky.  For  how  many 
wild  fantastic  daubs  had  not  that  formed  a  background  ! 


104  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

It  was  during  these  reveries  that  the  picture  subject 
she  craved  commenced  to  haunt  her  as  it  gradually 
shaped  itself  into  definiteness.  Since  her  singular  inter- 
view with  the  French  girl  at  Dinan  a  lurid  gleam 
streamed  from  the  gates  ajar  of  mysteries  that  had  baffled 
her.  She  had  read  widely  and  deeply  ;  but  books  are 
only  the  gloss  of  life,  they  are  not  the  text.  Its  secrets 
must  be  read  in  the  living  world,  with  much  pain  and 
sleeplessness  and  wearied  eyes.  The  throbbing  page 
had  been  presented  to  Clytie  for  one  sharp  moment, 
blazing,  the  while,  in  letters  of  flame.  Such  knowledge 
changes  lingering  girlhood  into  womanhood  without  the 
aid  of  passion.  It  changes  sex- pride  into  sex-sorrow 
— in  higher  natures,  be  it  understood.  And  this  sex-sor- 
row runs  in  channels  hollowed  out  by  ever-varying  cir- 
cumstance and  temperament.  It  flows  in  the  patient, 
all-enduring  devotion  of  the  sister  labouring  among  out- 
casts, in  the  militant  enthusiasm  of  the  social  reformer. 
It  quivers  in  the  hearts  of  teachers  like  George  Eliot 
and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  It  lives  in  the  souls 
of  some  mothers  who  tremulously  watch  the  shaping  of 
their  daughter's  destiny.  With  Clytie  it  ran  confluent 
with  her  artistic  impulses.  It  had  influenced  them 
vaguely,  dimly,  hauntingly  for  months,  but  now,  at  last, 
stirringly,  proclaiming  itself,  insistently  demanding 
expression. 

The  subject  was  found  :  Faustina  in  her  innocent 
maidenhood.  The  problem  :  how  to  manifest  the  fore- 
shadowings  of  passion  on  the  young,  clear  face? 

Clytie  spent  hours  in  her  attic  trying  to  fix  the  summer 
lightnings  of  features  that  flashed  elusively  before  her 
mind.  She  wished  she  were  in  London,  to  go  abroad  in 
the  highways  seeking  after  a  face.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  in  the  great  city  she  would  find  the  one  she  wanted, 
in  the  park,  at  the  theatre,  perhaps  among  the  subdued 
black  rows  of  women — lines  of  suppressed  volcanic 
workings — in  some  great  shop.  But  in  Durdleham  volca- 
noes were  extinct  or  regulated  by  formula  to  erupt 
with  mild  propriety.  She  began  to  feel  the  frenzied 
weariness  of  helplessness.  If  only  she  could  talk  to 
someone — to  Kent. 

One  day  Mrs.  Blather  came   into  the   attic.     Clytie 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  105 

was  dreaming  before  incoherent  charcoal  streaks.  The 
fire  had  burned  low  and  the  draught  of  the  opening  door 
made  her  shiver. 

"  Why,  Clytie,  child,  you  are  blue  with  cold,"  said  her 
sister,  wrapping  her  gray  woollen  shawl  more  tightly  round 
her  thin  shoulders.  "Why  do  you  mope  up  here?  " 

"  I  am  not  moping,  Gracie,"  replied  Clytie  ;  "  I  am  only 
working — conceiving  a  picture,  that's  all." 

"  Oh,  but  you  oughtn't  to  do  any  work.  Have  you 
not  come  down  for  a  holiday  ?  What's  the  good  of  burn- 
ing  the  candle  at  both  ends  ?  Come  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room and  talk  to  the  Howatsons  ;  they  are  inquiring 
after  you." 

"  But  I  am  in  such  a  mess  !  "  laughed  Clytie,  showing 
her  blackened  finger  tips. 

"  Well,  come  down  and  tidy  yourself  in  my  room  ;  there 
is  a  fire,  and  you  can  warm  yourself  for  a  few  minutes." 

Clytie  followed  her  sister  down  the  stairs  to  the  latter's 
bedroom,  where  a  cheerful  fire  warmed  the  cold  clean 
chintz  of  the  hangings.  Mrs.  Blather  sat  down  by  the 
hearth,  while  Clytie  washed  her  hands  and  touched  her 
hair. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  us  more  of  your  work,  Clytie  ?  " 
she  said  propitiatingly.  "  Here  you  are  being  criticised 
in  the  newspapers,  quite  like  a  famous  person,  and  we  at 
home  know  nothing  of  it." 

"Why,  Gracie,  I  thought  it  did  not  interest  you  much." 

"  We  would  take  an  interest  if  you  would  only  let  us." 

"  But,  you  see,  I  paint  such  queer  pictures.  I  don't 
think  they  are  your  style.  And  then  pictures  are  not 
portable  like  books.  If  I  wrote  poetry,  you  could  be 
deluged  with  presentation  copies  ;  but  even  we  ourselves 
lose  all  the  result  of  our  work  when  the  picture  is  sold." 

"  Of  course,  but  you  might  write  and  talk  more.  And 
with  regard  to  the  '  queer '  pictures,  don't  you  think,  if 
you  made  us  your  confidantes,  the  pictures  might  be  a 
little  less—'  queer  '  ?  You  see,  Clytie,  you  are  young,  and 
it  is  your  nature  to  run  into  extremes.  If  you  were  just 
a  little  bit  restrained  by  older  folks,  would  you  not  get 
what  you  are  so  fond  of  talking  about — '  truth  ' — in  your 
work  ? " 

Clytie  was  somewhat  puzzled  at  Mrs.  Blather's  concili- 


106  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

atory  tone.  Was  this  an  effort  towards  a  better  under- 
standing,  or  was  it  a  disguised  lecture  ?  She  finished  her 
hasty  toilet  and  went  and  stood  by  the  fire  near  her 
sister,  her  foot  on  the  fender. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Grade,"  she  said,  "but  would 
you  always  understand  ?  Perhaps,"  she  added,  smiling, 
after  a  pause,  "you  would  want  to  restrain  too  much — 
and  where  would  the  picture  be  ?" 

"  Well,  why  not  try  ?  What  is  the  picture  to  be  about 
that  you  are  working  at  now  ? " 

The  blood  rushed  to  Clytie's  cheeks,  which,  bent  down, 
caught  the  added  glow  of  the  fire — a  contrast,  with  her 
rich  colour,  to  the  clear,  waxen,  negative  face  of  her 
sister.  She  broke  suddenly  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  There  !  Even  from  the  beginning  I  couldn't  discuss 
it  with  you,  Gracie.  It  is  only  a  girl's  face — I  can't  tell 
you  anything  more  about  it." 

"  Well,  that's  what  I  complain  of,"  said  Mrs.  Blather 
with  growing  acidity.  "  You  keep  your  own  sisters  in 
ignorance  of  your  life,  and  confide  everything  to  this 
Mr.  Kent,  who  is  nothing  to  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  have  told  Mr.  Kent  about  this 
picture  ? " 

"  I  was  not  referring  to  this  one,  though  by  your 
manner  I  see  you  have." 

"  Well,  yes,  I  have,"  said  Clytie,  "  because — because — 
he  has  the  artistic  temperament — and  he  can  seize  an 
idea — in  fact — why  are  you  saying  this  to  me,  Gracie  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  not  going  the  right  way,  Clytie  ; 
and  it  is  my  duty  as  your  elder  sister,  who  has  looked 
after  you  since  you  were  so  high,  to  make  a  last  effort 
to  bring  you  within  some  restraining  influences.  We 
don't  like  your  intimacy  with  Mr.  Kent.  It  is  not  what 
we  have  been  taught  to  think  right.  I  know  you  look 
down  upon  us  as  narrow-minded  at  Durdleham.  I  think 
it  is  better  for  us.  We  are  shut  in,  perhaps,  between  high 
walls,  but  the  high  walls  keep  us  safe." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then  Clytie  said  : 

"  Gracie,  don't  you  think  this  subject  has  been  enough 
discussed  ?  It  is  wasting  words  and  spoiling  good  inten- 
tions. Suppose  we  go  down  to  the  Howatsons." 


CHAPTER  X. 

ONE  day,  about  this  time,  Kent  was  walking  home 
from  the  Museum.  His  spirits  had  by  no  means  lightened 
since  his  conversation  with  Wither,  and  he  strode  along 
moodily,  trying  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  arrangement 
of  that  evening's  portion  of  the  great  work.  He  had 
gone  back  to  it  resolutely  and  doggedly,  and  was  con- 
scious that  it  was  progressing  not  badly,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  had  a  troubling  sense  that  he  was  treating  it  less 
as  an  aim  than  as  a  cure  for  existence.  Fairfax,  the 
doctor,  told  him  he  was  overdoing  himself,  that  the  strain 
of  double  work  was  telling,  advised  total  idleness,  and  if 
possible  a  change  of  air.  Kent  gave  the  prescription  a 
trial,  and  went  down  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  a  week-end, 
where  he  tramped  himself  utterly  tired  during  the  day 
and  bored  himself  exquisitely  during  the  evening.  Then 
he  came  back  rather  worse  than  when  he  went.  No  ;  he 
was  suffering  from  change,  and  not  from  the  want  of  it. 

London  was  in  a  pitiable  condition.  It  had  snowed, 
then  thawed  into  slush,  and  now  a  hard  black  frost  had 
set  in,  rendering  the  roadways  like  glass.  Already  dur- 
ing his  walk  home  Kent  had  seen  four  horses  down.  On 
the  first  two  occasions  he  had  lent  a  helping  hand. 
After  that  it  began  to  grow  monotonous,  and  he  hurried 
past  the  accidents,  anxious  to  get  home  out  of  the  sullen 
iron-bound  streets.  At  the  corner  of  Sloane  Square  and 
the  King's  Road  he  saw  a  familiar  girlish  figure  coming 
towards  him.  It  was  Winifred,  her  dark  cheeks  glowing 
with  the  exercise  of  walking  ;  but  he  noticed  a  look  of 
trouble  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Kent,"  she  said; 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Can  you  walk  a  little  way 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  as  long  as  you  like.  What  is  the  matter  ? 
You  are  not  yourself/' 


108  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  No.  I  have  been  upset,  so  upset ;  you  would  hardly 
think  it.  Come  and  I  will  tell  you." 

They  crossed  the  road  and  went  on  down  Lower 
Sloane  Street. 

"  It's  about  Jack — Jack,  the  model,  you  remember. 
He  has  been  run  over  !  Oh,  it's  horrible  !  " 

"  And  you  are  going  to  him  ? "  asked  Kent,  noticing 
for  the  first  time  a  little  basket  hanging  over  her  arm. 
"  Give  me  that,"  he  added,  taking  the  basket,  which  she 
out  of  habit  surrendered  to  him.  "  And  these  are  jellies 
and  what  not  for  him  ? " 

"  Yes.  Will  you  come  with  me  and  see  him,  see  what 
can  be  done  for  him,  rather?  His  mother  is  so  harsh,  so 
stupid." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  hear  of  the  accident  ?  " 

Winifred's  cheek  paled  a  little  and  she  turned  her 
head  from  him. 

"  I  saw  it  myself.  Oh,  I  shall  never,  never  forget  it ! 
just  outside  Sloane  Square  station  ;  I  was  coming 
home,  yesterday.  The  ground  was  just  as  slippery  as  it 
is  now.  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you  !  It  makes  me  shudder 
to  think  of  it  !  " 

"  Take  your  time,"  said  Kent  good-naturedly. 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  steps.  Then,  nerving  herself, 
she  went  on  with  more  coherence. 

"  He  was  just  in  front  of  me  when  I  came  out,  and  as 
he  saw  me  he  ran  away,  frightened — like  a  little  scared 
animal  ;  you  know  his  ways.  And  crossing  the  road, 
not  looking  where  he  was  going,  he  turned  his  head 
round  as  if  to  see  I  was  not  following  him,  and  then  he 
slipped — oh-h  !  under  the  hoofs  of  a  horse — in  a 
hansom.  And  the  driver  tried  to  pull  up  sharp,  and  the 
horse  came  down  too — on  top  of  Jack  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  Kent. 

"  A  crowd  at  once  collected.  I  rushed  through — I 
must  have  screamed  a  little  and  cried  that  I  knew  him, 
for  the  people  made  way  for  me.  It  all  seemed  like  a 
horrid  dream.  I  can't  tell  what  happened,  except  that  I 
found  myself  kneeling  on  the  ground  with  the  poor  little 
mite's  head  on  my  lap.  Then  someone  was  talking  to 
me,  who  said  he  was  a  doctor,  and  began  to  examine  the 
boy's  injuries." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  109 

"  Is  he  badly  hurt  ?  " 

"  The  doctor  does  not  know  yet.  No  bones  are 
broken — the  injuries  are  internal." 

"  Is  he  at  the  hospital  ?  " 

"  No.  At  his  own  home.  I  gave  them  the  address, 
and  told  them  his  mother  would  care  for  him — why,  I 
don't  know.  And  then  they  got  a  stretcher  from  the 
police-station  and  carried  him  home,  and  I  went  with 
them  and  broke  it  to  his  mother.  But,  oh !  Mr.  Kent, 
almost  the  most  awful  part  of  it  is  that  it  seems  as  if  I 
was  the  cause  of  it." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  child,"  said  Kent  in  rough 
earnestness. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  is.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me  he  would 
not  have  run  across  the  road  in  a  fright.  Oh  !  I  can 
see  it  now — the  horse  plunging,  his  hoofs  over  the  child 
— and  then  the  collapse,  and  the  child  hidden  under  the 
horse  !  " 

They  turned  down  a  side  street  and  then  another, 
sinking  into  the  squalour  that  still  remains  in  that  vague 
river  district  between  Pimlico  Pier  and  Milbank. 

"  Poor  little  chap  !  Punishment  has  come  at  last," 
said  Kent.  "It  has  a  kind  of  way  of  doing  so.  What 
does  Clytie  think  of  it  ?  Have  you  told  her  ?  " 

"  I  only  wrote  to  her  yesterday.  This  morning  I  got 
a  telegram.  I  think  I  have  it  with  me.  It  is  Clytie  all 
over !  " 

She  opened  the  purse  she  was  carrying  inside  her 
muff  and  drew  from  it  a  crumpled  telegram.  It  ran  : 

Dreadfully  distressed.  Get  the  best  of  everything,  nurse, 
doctor.  Find  money  to  go  on  with  in  drawer  at  once.  I  must  feel 
that  I  am  doing  something.  Will  write. 

"  Yes,  it  is  like  her,"  said  Kent,  with  a  smile,  as  he 
handed  it  back  to  her. 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  mind  doing  something 
for  me,  Mr.  Kent  ?  "  said  Winnie  after  a  pause.  "  Get 
the  money  out  of  Clytie's  drawer  for  me.  I  have  been 
so  busy  all  day.  Reggie  is  in  bed  with  a  bad  cold  and 
the  house  is  upside  down — and  of  course  I  have  to  come 
here.  You  see,  I  must  use  the  money,  or  else  Clytie  would 
be  hurt ;  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  matter  of  conscience." 
8 


HO  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Or  a  matter  of  Clyde's  telling  you  ? "  said  Kent. 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  that.  One  always  does  what 
Clytie  says.  So  do  you,  Mr.  Kent.  Anyhow,  I  should 
like  to  have  the  money  for  the  sake  of  obeying  her 
wishes.  Could  you  get  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  will  tell  me  how." 

"  Oh,  that's  easy.  I  have  the  key  of  her  secretaire  in 
my  purse.  She  keeps  her  cash-box  there.  You  can  let 
me  have  it  as  it  is.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     I  will  bring  it  round  to-night." 

The  early  winter  twilight  had  fallen  and  scared  shiver- 
ing indoors  the  brood  of  unwashed  children  that  possess 
these  gray,  sordid  streets.  Here  and  there  women  stood 
at  the  doors,  their  hands  folded  in  their  aprons,  with 
little  ones  clinging  to  their  skirts,  chaffering  with  a 
costermonger,  or  exchanging  shrill  confidences  with  a 
neighbour.  Most  of  the  front  parlours  on  the  ground 
floor  were  lightless,  with  drawn  blinds.  Here  and  there 
a  public-house  beer-can  gleamed  white  upon  the  railing 
spikes.  Workmen  lurched  heavily  along,  now  and  then 
followed  by  shawled,  bare-armed  wives,  vituperative. 
For  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  when  the  businesslike 
wife  looks  after  her  husband.  Here  and  there  from  a 
suddenly  opened  doorway  came  the  smell  of  many 
weeks'  cooking.  The  poorer  classes  despise  fresh  air 
in  their  rooms — perhaps  because  they  get  it  for 
nothing. 

Winifred  stopped  with  Kent  at  a  dark-fronted,  dingy 
house,  the  facsimile  of  the  forty  other  houses  in  the 
dingy  row  and  of  the  forty  opposite  across  the  narrow 
roadway.  A  little  girl  answered  her  knock. 

"Mrs.  Burmester  in,  my  dear?  Come,  Mr.  Kent,  if 
you  don't  mind.  I  know  the  way." 

Kent  followed  her  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  and  into 
Mrs.  Burmester's  room.  It  was  less  squalid  than  he 
had  imagined.  A  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  with 
a  saucepan  simmering.  There  were  fairly  substantial 
chairs,  a  table,  and  the  ragged  remains  of  a  carpet.  On 
a  big  bed  by  the  side  of  the  wall,  not  uncomfortable- 
looking  nor  unclean,  lay  Jack,  tossing  his  wild  elf  head 
in  delirium.  By  the  side  of  the  bed  sat  a  nurse,  whom 
the  doctor  had  sent.  Mrs.  Burmester  was  spreading 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA.  Ill 

out  the  tea-things  on  the  table.  Her  red,  heavy  face 
brightened  momentarily  when  Winnie  entered. 

"  How  is  he  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  mortal  bad,  miss.  He  hasn't  had  his  senses  all 
day." 

"And  the  doctor — does  he  say  anything?  " 

"  He  said  he  would  like  a  consultation,"  replied  the 
nurse,  "  but  he  did  not  know  exactly  whom  to  refer  to." 

"  Why,  to  me,  of  course  !  "  replied  Winnie.  "  He 
knows  my  name  and  address.  If  you  see  him  before  I  do, 
say  I  authorise  him  to  do  anything  he  thinks  right.  We 
are  willing  to — that  is,  he  need  not  be  hindered  by 
questions  of  expense." 

Winnie  turned  to  Mrs.  Burmester  with  the  basket, 
which  she  had  taken  from  Kent's  hand.  The  mother 
thanked  her,  almost  monosyllabically.  She  was  too  dull 
for  emotions  of  any  kind.  Kent  watched  her  with 
interest,  for  Clytie  had  often  spoken  of  her,  hinting 
at  her  own  puzzle. 

There  was  a  lull  in  Jack's  ravings  as  Winifred  and 
Kent  stood  over  the  bed  looking  at  him.  The  expres- 
sion of  sullen  ferocity  had  gone  from  his  face,  which  now 
seemed  refined  and  gentle.  He  smiled  at  Winifred,  not 
recognising  her,  murmured  something  incoherent  about 
arithmetic.  His  mind  had  wandered  back  to  his  earlier 
school-days.  He  had  been  fond  of  a  teacher  there,  his 
mother  explained.  Her  name  was  Miss  Jones.  She 
wished  he  was  fond  of  anybody  now.  He  was  a  sore 
trial  to  her.  The  floodgates  of  dull  speech  were  opened 
and  a  slow  stream  of  joyless  anecdote  poured  forth — 
a  jeremiad  of  Jack's  iniquities.  Winnie  stopped  her 
gently. 

"  We  must  not  think  of  that  now,  Mrs.  Burmester,"  she 
said.  "  We  have  to  get  him  round  again  ;  and  then  we 
will  see  whether  we  can't  make  a  good  boy  of  him  for 
you." 

4<  Ah  !  You  won't  do  that.  He  is  too  much  like  his 
father." 

They  stayed  a  little  longer,  talking.  Then  they  went, 
as  Winifred  had  to  be  back  among  her  own  family 
responsibilities. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Kent  as  they  were  walking  home- 


112  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

wards,  "  this  must  be  Treherne's  parish — in  fact,  I  am 
sure  of  it.  Has  it  not  struck  you  ? " 

"  No,  it  never  occurred  to  me." 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  know.  I'll  send  him  a  line.  He 
knows  all  about  this  sort  of  thing." 

He  walked  with  her  as  far  as  the  door  of  her  own 
house.  There  she  gave  him  the  key  of  Clytie's  secre- 
taire. Mrs.  Gurkins  kept  the  room  key.  He  left  her 
and  turned  homewards,  striding  along  rather  fast,  eager 
to  execute  Clytie's  commission.  He  was  filled  with  a 
foolish  pleasure  at  her  impulsive  telegram  ;  touched  also 
at  Winifred's  implicit  obedience  and  confidence. 

"  She's  a  queen  among  women  !  " 

The  silly  phrase  passed  through  his  mind  and  he 
caught  himself  repeating  it  with  his  lips,  half  aloud. 

"  Bosh  !  "  he  added  with  some  impatience.  And  he 
stopped  to  look  in  at  a  shop-window  to  divert  his  mind. 
It  was  a  boot-shop.  He  ran  his  eye  mechanically  over 
the  rows  of  commonplace,  cheap  boots,  and  then  it  fell 
upon  a  little  pair  of  tan  shoes,  with  broad  silk  laces. 
Before  he  realised  how  his  mind  was  working,  a  picture 
rose  before  him  of  Clytie  wearing  a  similar  pair  during 
the  summer  trip  abroad.  He  remembered  bending 
down  one  day  when  a  knot  had  slipped  and  retying  it 
for  her. 

"  I  am  becoming  a  positive  ass  !  "  he  said  to  himself, 
with  an  angry  jerk  away  from  the  window.  Then  he 
redoubled  his  pace,  as  if  in  defiance,  but  the  silly  phrase 
rang  in  his  ears  : 

"  She's  a  queen  among  women  !  " 

He  obtained  the  key  from  Mrs.  Gurkins,  and  entered 
the  tenantless  room.  The  blinds  were  down,  the  curtains 
undrawn.  It  was  just  dark.  He  lit  the  piano  candles 
and  looked  about  him.  How  dreary  the  room  seemed  ! 
The  fireless  grate,  the  coverless  table  (the  cloth  had 
been  thriftily  put  away  by  Mrs.  Gurkins),  the  absence 
of  the  feminine  litter  with  which  Clytie  was  wont  to 
strew  the  room — all  made  his  heart  sink  for  a  moment 
beneath  the  weight  of  a  great  longing.  He  remembered, 
too,  the  room  by  that  dim  light — on  the  evening  of 
Clytie's  submission.  He  saw  her  again  lift  her  arms  to 
unpin  her  hat  from  behind,  the  proud  young  figure  stand- 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  113 

ing  out  free  as  she  looked  at  him  half  playfully,  half 
seriously,  her  ripe,  full  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  His 
breath  came  quickly  as  a  flood  of  self-knowledge  swept 
over  him.  He  had  felt  puzzled  then — at  vague  inarticu- 
late desires.  Now  they  were  gathering  a  terribly  real, 
objective  shape.  He  grew  dizzy,  hot  and  cold,  half 
terrified  at  himself. 

With  shaking  fingers  he  fitted  the  key  in  the  lock  of 
the  secretaire.  In  the  drawer  was  a  heterogeneous  col- 
lection of  odds  and  ends — letters,  keys,  ball-programmes, 
receipted  bills — which  he  had  to  thrust  aside  so  as  to 
withdraw  the  little  japanned  cash-box.  As  he  lifted  it 
out  a  handkerchief  came  with  it,  caught  by  its  lace  edge, 
and  after  dangling  a  little  fell  at  his  feet.  He  picked  it 
up,  kept  it  in  his  hand,  soothed  at  the  softness.  A  faint 
odour  of  perfume  rose  from  it,  subtle  and  delicate — the 
well-known  perfume  that  Clytie  always  used.  It  was 
like  an  emanation  from  herself.  It  grew  over  his  highly 
strung  senses  like  a  breath  of  her  own  personality,  sweet, 
intoxicating,  overpowering.  His  brain  swam.  With  a 
kind  of  groan  he  staggered  to  the  sofa,  threw  himself 
upon  it,  burying  his  face  in  the  little  handkerchief,  kissing 
it  madly. 

Now  all  was  clear,  waves  of  lightning  flashing  the 
truth  through  him.  He  loved  her,  passionately,  desired 
her  with  a  passion  all  the  fiercer  for  its  long  restraint. 
Yet  he  could  not  think  coherently.  One  thought,  one 
utter  realisation,  overpowered  all  others.  At  last  this 
great  surging  sex-tumult  was  sweeping  through  his 
veins. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  I  love  her  !  Oh,  my  God,  I  love  her  !  " 
That  was  all  that  he  could  groan  out  as  he  lay  upon 
the  sofa. 

The  creak  of  the  door  made  him  start  up.  On  the 
threshold  stood  one  of  Mrs.  Gurkins's  curly-headed 
little  children.  She  looked  for  a  moment,  rather  fright- 
ened, at  his  haggard  face,  and  then  ran  away.  Thus 
aroused  to  a  sense  of  external  things,  he  locked  up  the 
secretaire  and  went  out,  taking  the  cash-box  and  hand- 
kerchief with  him. 

On  the  slab  outside  his  rooms  he  found  a  letter  in 
Clyde's  familiar  handwriting.  He  went  into  his  room, 


114  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

and  sitting  down  before  his  writing  space,  spread  the 
letter  out  before  him.     It  ran  as  follows  : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  KENT  : 

If  you  ask  me  why  I  have  not  written  to  you  for  such  a  long  time,  I 
must  shrink  within  my  shell  of  femininity  and  refuse  to  give  you 
reasons.  For  I  have  them,  and  they  are  compounded  from  a  recipe 
handed  down  from  Mother  Eve.  Well,  I  write  to  you  now  because 
I  must.  That  reason  I  make  you  a  present  of. 

I  want  to  be  in  town  again,  in  the  King's  Road,  and  to  see  you  by 
the  fireside,  ready  to  be  asked  questions  and  to  answer  them,  and  to 
comfort  your  erratic  friend  Clytie  with  your  kindliness  and  wisdom. 
She  is  looked  upon  as  a  bad  girl  here,  and  pines  for  someone  who 
thinks  her  human,  and  who  also  thinks  her  art  human,  and  can  help 
her  in  it. 

Listen,  now  ;  I  have  got  the  subject  at  last ;  it  is  eating  my  heart 
out  almost,  I  have  to  keep  it  hidden  so  to  myself.  I  must  tell  you — 
for  the  sake's  sake.  "  Faustina  as  a  young,  innocent  girl,  with  the 
foreshadowings  of  passion  on  her  face."  There!  Now  you  know. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

Do  you  remember  my  depression  at  Dinan  ?  Well,  I  think  it  was 
there  I  got  the  conception.  I  can't  tell  you  more.  But  it  is  haunt- 
ing me.  I  feel  what  I  want  to  do,  but  I  can't  get  a  face.  What 
shall  I  do  ?  Tell  me.  You  know,  dear  Kent,  in  our  talks,  we  have 
often  disregarded  principles  that  move  the  world  pretty  potently. 
But  as  an  artist  I  am  bound  to  recognise  the  part  that  passion  plays 
in  the  tragedy  of  things. 

"  These  things  are  life  : 
And  life,  some  think,  is  worthy  of  the  Muse," 

as  Meredith  says  in  "  Modern  Love."    (Do  you  remember  our  read- 
ing it  together  ?) 

I  can't  write  properly  about  it.  I  long  for  a  talk  with  you.  I  shall 
break  away  soon  and  come  for  it.  So  be  prepared  with  all  your 
sympathy. 

Do  you  miss  me  just  a  little  bit  ?  I  often  fancy  my  perverseness 
must  give  a  little  wholesome  irritation  to  your  life,  and  you  are  very 
good  not  to  mind  it.  I  always  seem  to  be  coming  to  you  for  help  and 
sympathy.  When  can  I  ever  do  anything  for  you  ?  You  must  tell 
me,  dear  friend,  when  the  time  comes. 

I  should  like  to  tell  you  to  give  Winnie  a  kiss  for  me,  but  that 
is  idiotic,  isn't  it  ?  Yet  you  know  what  I  mean.  See  that  the  dear 
child  is  not  wearing  herself  out.  There  !  I  am  asking  you  to  do 
something  else  for  me.  Do  write  a  long  letter,  full  of  yourself,  with 
just  a  paragraph  about  the  needs,  artistic  and  otherwise,  of 

Your  friend, 

C.  D. 

Kent  took  some  time  to  read  this.  The  letters  swam 
a  little  before  his  eyes.  Then  he  laid  his  head  upon 
his  arms  and  thought,  in  dumb  agony.  Clytie's  letter, 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  "5 

sisterly  and  trustful,  soothed  and  goaded  him  at  once. 
"  The  part  that  passion  plays  in  the  tragedy  of  things  !  " 
God  !  Had  a  fleeting  thought  never  struck  her  what  a 
part  it  might  play  in  their  lives'  tragedy  ?  How  could  he 
answer  that  letter,  addressed  to  a  friend,  received  by  a 
lover  in  the  hot  flush  of  newly  awakened  realisation  ? 
How  could  he  meet  her  bright,  frank  look  with  this 
burning  demon  within  him  ?  It  was  base,  horrible.  His 
mind  wandered  to  a  German  print  he  had  seen  some- 
where, a  goat-footed  satyr  kneeling  and  leering  at 
Psyche.  He  shuddered. 

It  is  given  but  to  few  men  to  know  this  terror  of  love  : 
only  to  those  who,  like  Kent,  have  hitherto  expended  vast 
animal  and  moral  energies  in  non-sexual  enthusiasms, 
and  have  rebelled  with  almost  passionate  repulsion 
against  the  assertion  of  the  sexual  principle.  To  some 
men  love  dawns  like  a  sweet,  fair  star — the  storm  comes 
later  on.  To  such  as  Kent  it  comes  in  terrific  forked 
lightnings  and  crash  of  thunder,  overwhelming  the  soul 
with  terror.  To  Kent's  excited  fancy  it  seemed  that  the 
Beast,  such  as  Wither  had  spoken  of,  had  entered  into 
him.  He  had  betrayed  the  compact  of  friendship,  her 
sisterly  trust  in  him.  Fool  that  he  had  been  !  Why 
had  he  not  recognised  it  before?  Now  all  was  over 
between  them.  The  future  seemed  nothing  but  black, 
rolling  darkness. 

The  solitary  gas-jet  that  he  had  lit  on  entering  flared 
high  and  strident  over  the  mantelpiece  above  the  black- 
ening fire,  and  Kent  lay  with  his  hands  on  his  arms, 
his  morbid  brain  at  death-grapple  with  love,  he  himself 
heedful  of  nothing  external — not  even  of  a  gay  whistle 
and  a  quick,  springing  tread  on  the  uncarpeted  stairs. 
The  door  burst  suddenly  open. 

"  Come  out,  you  fusty  old  hermit " 

Then  Wither  stopped.  Kent  raised  a  drawn,  rather 
ghastly  face  and  stared  at  him  stupidly. 

"  My  dear  old  chap,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  what's 
the  matter  ?  "  cried  Wither,  putting  down  his  hat  and 
stick  and  coming  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  said  Kent,  who  pulled  himself  to- 
gether with  an  effort,  rose,  and  broke  into  a  forced 
laugh. 


Il6  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Wither  looked  at  him  steadily  while  he  slowly  drew  off 
his  gloves. 

"  That's  nonsense  !  "  he  said  quietly. 

Then  his  sharp  glance  fell  on  the  little  crumpled  hand- 
kerchief that  lay  beside  the  open  letter  on  the  table. 
His  quick  sense,  aided  by  certain  opinions  he  had  formed 
long  since,  grasped  the  main  feature  of  the  situation. 

He  went  over  to  where  Kent  was  standing  by  the  fire- 
place, and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  old  man,  it  will  all  come  right." 

"  It  will  never  come  right,"  groaned  Kent  absently. 

"  It  must.     She  must  care  for  you  in  time." 

"  How  do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  of?  "Kent 
burst  out  rather  fiercely. 

"  I  guessed.  Besides — the  handkerchief.  It  is  not 
your  own.  Yours  are  a  little  more  businesslike." 

"  Oh,  well  !  "  said  Kent  a  little  huskily,  and  throwing 
his  head  back  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  "  I  can't 
hide  it.  What  would  be  the  good  ?  I  have  found  out 
that  she  is  a  friend  no  longer,  that  what  you  were  say- 
ing the  other  night  is  true — and  I  feel  a  brute  !  My 
God,  what  a  brute  I  feel  !  " 

Wither's  mental  balance  was  for  a  moment  upset. 
He  righted  it  after  a  moment  with  considerations  of  his 
friend's  character.  In  many  fragile,  nervous  bodies 
there  is  a  delicacy  of  perception  which  often  remains  all 
the  keener  when  protected  by  a  shell  of  cynicism. 

"  You  want  to  be  reasoned  with  gently,  friend  John," 
he  said.  "  You  must  not  feel  a  brute  when  you  love  a 
woman  as  a  man  like  you  can  love.  It's  the  best  and 
holiest  thing  on  God's  earth,  believe  me." 

"  But,  Teddy,  she  is  so  frank,  so  trustful,  so  proud  of 
our  friendship — it  can  never  be  the  same  again — if  I 
should  tell  her,  she  would  hate  me " 

"  You  can  bet  your  life  she  wouldn't !  "  murmured 
Wither. 

"  She  would  go  out  of  my  life  in  indignation,  and  she 
would  be  right,"  Kent  went  on.  "  She  would  scorn  me 
for  the  feelings  that  I  know  now  I  have  had  all  along  for 
her.  No  ;  it  is  all  over,  all  over.  I  can't  meet  her- 
again.  I  think  I  shall  go  mad  !  I  shall  throw  up  every- 
thing and  go  away." 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  II? 

"You  dear,  foolish  old  chap,"  said  Wither,  "can't  you 
see  that  very  little  would  make  her  in  love  with  you,  if 
she  is  not  so  already  ?  Why  should  you  two  not  get 
married  ? " 

"  I  marry  !  "  gasped  Kent,  as  if  struck  by  a  new 
idea.  "  I  ask  Clytie  Davenant,  with  her  beauty  and 
intellect  and  genius,  to  come  and  share — this  !  Clytie 
Davenant  marry  me  !  Why,  the  idea  is  ludicrous — 
preposterous  !  " 

"If  I  were  she,  I  should  not  think  so,"  said  Wither 
affectionately. 

Kent  shook  his  head  gloomily,  and  kicked  the  smoul- 
dering coal  into  a  fitful  blaze. 

"  No.  Until  she  shows  me  unmistakably — which  can 
be  never — that  she  cares  for  me  in  that  way,  I  would 
sooner  bite  my  tongue  out  than  tell  her." 

"  Until  she  asks  you  to  marry  her,  in  fact  !  John  Kent, 
you  are  two  years  older  than  I  am,  and  three  times  as 
big.  But  verily  you  are  a  little  child  !  And  if  you 
weren't,"  he  added  impulsively,  with  a  soft  glitter  in  his 
elfin  eyes, "  you  would  not  be  the  lovable  old  chap  that 
you  are  !  Good-bye  !  " 

"  Oh,  stay  a  little,  Teddy  !  "  cried  Kent.  "  I'm  not 
much  company,  but  I " 

"  Come  round  with  me  and  have  some  dinner,  then," 
interrupted  Wither.  "  It  will  occupy  your  body — if  not 
your  mind.  And  it  will  be  better  for  you  than  the 
bottled  beer  and  sardines  which  you  usually  feast  upon. 
I  shall  be  quite  alone  and  you  can  do  some  work  for 
me." 

"  All  right  !  "  replied  Kent  dejectedly.  "  It  does  not 
matter  what  I  do." 

Wither  turned  his  face  to  the  fire,  while  Kent  prepared 
to  go  out.  When  he  turned  round  Kent  was  holding 
the  cash-box  in  his  hand.  The  handkerchief  and  letter 
were  gone  from  the  table,  and  Wither  smiled  inwardly. 
He  had  himself  disposed  of  many  such  trifles  in  a  similar 
way.  Men  are  very  much  alike  in  several  matters. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  atmosphere  of  Durdlehara  was  uninspiring. 
Clyti«  could  make  no  progress  with  her  picture,  and  at 
last  she  laid  it  aside  in  despair.  She  had  set  her  heart 
upon  painting  it,  and  the  thoughts  of  it  worried  her, 
prevented  her  from  sleeping.  Not  only  would  it  give 
her  fame,  satisfy  her  ambition,  stimulated  by  the  success 
of  "  Jack,"  but  it  would  satisfy  certain  cravings  of  her 
soul.  And  yet  she  was  conscious  that  only  when  these 
cravings  found  articulate  utterance  could  the  haunting 
shadows  be  fixed.  The  lack,  therefore,  seemed  to  lie  in 
herself :  whether  in  her  spiritual  nature  or  in  her  material 
experience  of  the  world  she  could  not  tell  ;  perhaps  it 
was  a  subtle  combination  of  the  two.  She  could  not 
bring  her  lens  of  introspection  to  a  focus.  What  she 
saw  through  it  was  blurred  and  inchoate. 

She  had  looked  forward  to  Kent's  reply  to  her  letter. 
His  sympathetic  common  sense  might  help  her.  When 
his  answer  did  come,  after  some  days'  interval,  it  was 
strangely  cold  and  dispiriting,  just  two  sides  of  note- 
paper  barely  filled  with  sententious  enigma. 

"  If  the  painting  of  it  will  bring  you  joy,  paint.  If 
not,  you  are  grasping  at  shadows." 

That  was  the  gist  of  it.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Clytie 
was  inclined  to  be  indignant.  Her  own  letter  had  been 
written  out  of  the  friendliness  and  needs  of  her  heart,  and 
the  reply  seemed  almost  like  a  rebuff.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  writing  of  it  had  caused  Kent  two  hours'  perplexed 
wretchedness.  Even  the  finest  feminine  perception 
cannot  pierce  through  a  millstone.  The  little  feeling 
of  resentment  towards  Kent  took  the  keenness  of  edge 
from  her  anticipated  pleasure  of  seeing  him  again  ;  at 
least  so  she  told  herself  when  she  packed  her  boxes  at 
the  end  of  her  visit  to  Durdleham.  But  as  the  train 
brought  her  nearer  to  London  her  spirits  rose.  She  was 
free  once  more  to  live  her  own  life,  without  fear  of  com- 

nt 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  119 

ment  or  criticism.  It  was  simple,  laborious,  and  innocent 
enough,  and  she  desired  little  more  at  present ;  but  there 
was  the  exhilarating  sense  of  freedom,  of  perfect  liberty 
to  be  outrageous,  reckless,  if  such  was  her  good  pleasure, 
wherein  lies  much  of  the  sweetness  of  independence. 

She  found  her  sitting-room  tidied,  neatly  arranged, 
looking  as  nearly  as  possible  as  if  it  had  never  been 
vacated,  and  Winifred,  a  transforming  fairy  in  the  midst 
of  it,  eagerly  awaiting  her.  Clytie  sighed  a  little  as  she 
listened  to  Winnie's  gossip.  The  latter  looked  at  her 
with  reproachful  inquiry. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,  dear,  that  this  is  more  my  home 
than  the  house  at  Durdleham,  and  you  are  dearer  to  me 
than  anyone  there." 

Winifred  stroked  her  friend's  hand  in  girlish  fashion 
and  turned  away  her  head.  She  knew  Clytie  too  well 
to  make  any  reply.  Then  she  spoke  of  Jack,  who  was 
in  a  fair  way  towards  recovery.  She  had  been  very  glad 
of  Clytie's  money,  she  confessed,  with  a  deep  blush, 
because  things  at  home — well,  Clytie  knew.  And  Mr. 
Treherne,  with  whom  Kent  had  communicated,  had  been 
very  kind  and  helpful.  He  went  round  to  Mrs.  Bur- 
mester's  every  afternoon  to  cheer  up  the  invalid. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  go  round  pretty  often  ? "  said 
Clytie. 

"  Of  course  —  every  afternoon,"  replied  Winifred 
simply. 

And  Clytie,  as  she  smoothed  the  shapely  head  lying 
in  her  lap,  smiled  to  herself  a  little  mysterious  smile. 

Mr.  Kent,  too,  Winifred  continued,  had  been  invalu- 
able to  her.  He  had  brought  the  boy  picture-books, 
toys — had  sat  up  with  him  one  night  whilst  the  nurse 
rested,  the  mother  being  quite  helpless,  and  sleeping  in 
an  adjoining  room  which  they  had  rented  for  the  time 
between  them.  Never  had  street  arab  been  so  petted, 
so  preciously  guarded.  He  was  growing  quite  human 
under  the  treatment.  Kent  and  Treherne  had  managed 
to  get  him  a  nomination  to  a  decent  school-home,  which 
would  assure  him  an  honest  career  in  after  life.  Wini- 
fred was  enthusiastic.  She  had  never  known  before 
what  a  good,  beautiful  world  it  was,  how  filled  with  good 
and  beautiful  people  ! 


120  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

In  reply  to  a  question  of  Clytie's  she  said  that  she  had 
seen  little  of  Kent  lately  ;  that  he  looked  overworked, 
worried,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  had  exchanged 
a  few  words  with  him. 

"  He  is  doing  too  much.  I  must  speak  to  him  about 
it  this  evening,"  said  Clytie. 

She  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would  come,  if  not  at 
the  present  hour,  while  they  were  sitting  over  the  tea- 
cups, at  any  rate  after  dinner,  to  discuss  in  cheery, 
familiar  fashion  the  events  of  the  past  month.  But  the 
moments  slipped  by  and  his  footstep  was  not  heard  on 
the  stairs. 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  knew  I  was  coming  back 
to-day?"  asked  Clytie. 

"  Of  course.  He  inquired  twice  of  me,"  replied 
Winifred. 

Winnie  went  away,  and  Clytie  dined,  took  up  a  book, 
and  waited.  But  Kent  did  not  come.  Clytie  felt  hurt. 
If  he  had  been  engaged,  he  might  at  least  have  left  her 
a  word  of  welcome.  It  was  unfriendly,  unlike  him. 
Surely  she  could  not  have  offended  him  in  any  way. 
She  grew  interested  in  her  book,  sat  up  till  a  late  hour 
finishing  it.  As  she  neared  the  end  she  heard  the 
well-known  footstep  coming  up  the  stairs.  She  laid  her 
book  down,  expecting  to  see  the  door  open,  but  though 
she  thought  she  detected  a  faint  pause  outside  on  the 
landing,  the  sound  of  the  tread  did  not  cease,  but  con- 
tinued up  the  next  flight  until  it  was  lost.  Then  she 
went  to  bed,  somewhat  angry. 

She  was  in  her  studio  betimes  in  the  morning  setting 
things  straight.  Orders  had  come  in  for  a  couple  of 
small  street-urchin  pictures.  She  had  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  setting  to  work  upon  them  at  once.  Her 
mind  was  intent  upon  the  matter  when  she  heard  Kent 
pass  down  the  stairs  on  his  way  to  the  Museum.  Ordi- 
narily he  was  accustomed,  if  he  was  not  pressed  for 
time,  to  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  studio  door  as  he 
passed,  nod  good-morning,  and  perhaps  receive  some 
small  commission  to  execute  at  the  colour  man's  in 
Oxford  Street. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  grown  tired  of  our  intimacy,"  thought 
Clytie,  "  and  is  taking  this  opportunity  of  breaking  it 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  121 

off."  The  thought  was  a  whip  to  her  pride.  It  sent 
the  blood  rushing  in  fierce  waves  to  her  cheeks.  She 
was  alone,  an  angry  woman,  not  fit  company  for  herself. 
She  felt  humiliated,  insulted,  and  encouraged  herself  in 
the  feeling,  baring  her  shoulders  to  the  lash.  It  scarcely 
occurred  to  her  then  to  inquire  into  the  justice  of  the 
suggestion — the  mere  fact  of  the  suggestion  presenting 
itself  was  sufficient  to  make  her  burn  with  indignation. 
After  lunch  she  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  Piccadilly  to 
look  at  the  shops  and  the  people.  Town  was  filling 
again,  the  afternoon  sun  shone  brightly.  Clyde's  spirits 
rose.  She  went  with  light,  defiant  tread  down  the 
Burlington  Arcade,  flashing  a  contemptuous  glance 
upon  admiring  loungers,  bought  herself  gloves  and  odds 
and  ends  of  millinery,  crossed  over  to  Bond  Street, 
looked  in  at  Dowdeswell's  to  see  a  picture  on  view  in 
the  gallery,  and  then,  after  an  interview  with  Burrowes, 
the  dealer,  in  Oxford  Street,  she  turned  into  Regent 
Street,  prepared  to  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  the  mis- 
cellaneous crowd  forever  moving  up  and  down  its 
broad  pavement.  Perhaps  the  wished-for  face  would 
meet  her  there,  she  thought,  smiling  to  herself ;  in 
which  case  she  determined  that  she  would  stop,  pass  it 
and  repass  it,  fixing  its  features  in  her  memory.  She 
amused  herself  thus  for  some  time,  scanning  the  faces 
of  the  passers-by,  inventing  rapid  histories  to  account, 
here  for  the  after-light  of  laughter  in  a  young  girl's  eyes, 
and  there  for  the  lines  of  pain  round  the  corners  of  an 
older  woman's  lips.  She  paused  before  a  shop-window 
to  observe  a  ragged  little  arab  who  was  flattening  a 
nose,  already  much  snubbed  by  previous  applications, 
against  the  glass.  To  gratify  a  whimsical  artistic  fancy 
she  entered  the  shop  on  a  trivial  pretext  so  as  to 
obtain  from  the  other  side  of  the  pane  the  aspect  of  the 
urchin's  face.  Then,  after  making  a  mental  note  of  it 
for  future  use,  she  went  on  her  way.  It  was  exhilarat- 
ing, this  bright  London,  with  its  manifold  variegation, 
after  the  dull  uniformity  of  Durdleham.  This  perpetual 
stimulus  was  necessary  to  her  art,  which  drooped  help- 
less in  the  quiet  country  town.  And  with  the  thrill  of 
artistic  quickening  came  the  buoyant,  vigorous  pulsation 
of  youth.  Her  tread  was  elastic,  her  cheeks  and  eyes 


122  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

animated.  She  had  forgotten  her  irritation  of  the  morn- 
ing in  the  sense  of  vitality  and  enjoyment.  It  was  a 
good  thing  to  be  young,  with  a  purpose  in  life  and  the 
freedom  and  strength  to  carry  it  out.  Clytie  tasted  a 
rare  happiness  that  afternoon,  one  of  which  the  high 
gods  are  very  sparing. 

Suddenly  she  felt  a  touch  on  her  arm,  and  a  voice 
exclaimed  : 

"  My  dear  Clytie  !  What  are  you  wandering  about 
here  for?" 

She  turned  round.  The  speaker  was  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son,  merry  and  smiling.  They  shook  hands  and  walked 
leisurely  down  the  street  together. 

"  When  did  you  get  away  from  that  dreadful  place, 
and  why  haven't  you  been  to  see  us  ?" 

"  This  is  my  first  day  of  freedom,"  replied  Clytie, 
"and  I  was  just  thinking  of  coming  round  to  Harley 
Street." 

"That's  right!  You  will  come  round  with  me  when 
I  have  finished  my  shopping.  I  was  wishing  for  you. 
I  have  a  little — no,  a  big  treat  for  you." 

"  Is  it  nice  to  eat  ?  I  looked  in  longingly  at  Charbon- 
nel's  as  I  passed  down  Bond  Street,  and  I  am  hungry." 

"  It's  Thornton — at  last,"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson  with 
a  little  air  of  triumph. 

Clytie  was  interested,  and  forgot  Charbonnel's. 

"When  did  he  come  ?" 

"  He  has  been  in  England  some  weeks,  but  only  a  few 
days  in  London.  Do  you  know,  he  is  going  to  settle 
down.  Won't  that  be  delightful  ?  I  do  hope  you  will 
like  him." 

"And  he  is  going  to  give  up  fighting  and  exploring 
and  all  that  ? "  asked  Clytie. 

"  So  he  says.  But  I  don't  believe  it.  He  will  get 
seized  with  the  fever  after  a  time  and  then  off  he  will  go 
again.  That  has  always  been  his  way.  But  at  any  rate 
we  will  have  him  with  us  for  a  season." 

"  Is  he  staying  with  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  We  wanted  him  to,  but  he  is  too 
wild  a  creature.  Besides,  he  knows  the  half  of  Lon- 
don, and  is  in  demand  everywhere.  He  is  quite  a 
personage." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  123 

"  Then  where  does  the  treat  come  in  ?  "  asked  Clytie, 
laughing. 

"  Why,  he  comes  to  Harley  Street  this  afternoon  for 
tea,  you  obtuse  girl,"  cried  Mrs.  Farquharson.  "  And 
that  is  why  we  had  better  make  haste  to  get  back,  as  it 
is  growing  late." 

Clytie  had  often  heard  Mrs.  Farquharson  speak  of  this 
cousin,  Thornton  Hammerdyke,  and  was  half  doubtful 
whether  to  allow  herself  to  be  infected  with  her  enthu- 
siasm or  to  prepare  herself  to  find  him  commonplace,  as 
one  generally  does  find  the  particular  heroes  of  our 
intimate  friends.  Caroline  was  never  tired  of  talking  of 
him.  He  was  a  hero,  a  latter-day  berserker.  She  was 
proud  of  him,  treasured  up  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers 
in  which  his  name  was  mentioned,  wove  a  woman's  web 
of  romance  around  his  brilliant  exploits.  She  had  often 
waxed  eloquent  over  his  fame,  his  personal  charm,  his 
physical  strength  and  beauty. 

"  But  all  this  can't  be  contained  in  one  poor  mortal," 
Clytie  would  say  sometimes,  teasingly. 

And  Mrs.  Farquharson  would  reply,  without  any  of  the 
banter  that  generally  characterised  her  personal  gossip  : 

"  Wait  until  you  have  seen  him,  my  dear." 

To  the  imaginative  there  was  much  that  was  heroic 
and  romantic  in  the  record  of  the  active  life  of  Thornton 
Hammerdyke.  He  had  entered  the  army  shortly  after 
leaving  school,  but,  wearying  after  a  couple  of  years  of 
the  dulness  of  a  garrison  life,  had  resigned  his  commis- 
sion. An  exploring  party  to  Thibet  was  afoot.  He 
joined  it,  quickly  became  its  leading  spirit,  and  when 
the  chief  of  the  expedition  was  incapacitated  through 
illness  he  undertook  the  command.  This  brought  him 
into  public  notice.  When  the  Soudan  War  broke  out  he 
joined  Lord  Wolseley  as  a  volunteer,  and  made  himself 
conspicuous  by  his  daring  and  his  marvellous  feats  of 
bodily  strength.  His  name  was  known  all  through  the 
army.  He  courted  danger,  especially  where  it  took  the 
form  of  hand  to  hand  fighting.  An  eye-witness  of  the 
scene  had  told  Caroline  how  once,  when  attacked  by 
three  gigantic  Soudanese,  he  had  shorn  one  clean  through 
the  body,  lost  his  sword,  leaped  from  his  horse,  wrenched 
the  spear  from  one  of  the  others  with  a  force  that  made 


124  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  man's  arm  snap  like  a  twig,  turn  on  the  other — while 
the  broken-armed  savage  leaped  upon  his  back  and  tried 
to  throttle  him — and  how  before  there  was  time  to  follow 
his  movements  both  were  lying  dead  at  his  feet.  He 
had  fought  side  by  side  with  Burnaby  in  the  rash  con- 
flict when  the  author  of  the  "  Ride  to  Khiva  "  fell  pierced 
with  Soudanese  spears.  He  had  been  in  evidence  in 
every  skirmish.  When  the  war  was  over  he  remained  in 
Africa,  on  the  Soudan  frontier,  in  command  of  some 
Egyptian  cavalry,  maintaining  a  guerrilla  warfare  until 
the  troops  were  recalled.  And  then  he  plunged  into  the 
interior,  exploring  on  his  own  account,  with  a  nominal 
authority  from  the  Belgian  government.  And  it  was  on 
this  part  of  his  career  that  his  reputation  chiefly  rested. 
Certainly  ugly  stories  against  him  of  undue  harshness, 
even  ferocity,  were  afloat  at  one  time.  But  he  laughed 
at  these  rumours  on  his  return  to  England,  and  sarcas- 
tically observed  in  a  letter  to  the  Times  that,  given  a 
community  consisting  of  a  judge,  a  prisoner,  and  a 
hundred  howling,  savage  maniacs,  it  was  a  matter  of 
some  difficulty  to  form  an  impartial  jury. 

When  Mrs.  Farquharson  and  Clytie  arrived  at  Harley 
Street  the  short  January  day  had  nearly  drawn  to  a 
close.  In  the  drawing-room  the  gas  had  not  been 
lighted,  and  by  the  dull  glow  of  the  fire  objects  were 
only  dimly  visible.  Two  men  rose  from  either  side  of  the 
hearth  as  the  ladies  entered.  The  long  ungainly  figure 
Clytie  recognised  as  Mr.  Farquharson,  the  other  as 
Thornton  Hammerdyke,  from  Caroline's  description  of 
his  great  powerful  frame.  His  face  she  could  not 
distinguish  ;  only  a  large,  finely  shaped  head,  and  white 
teeth  gleaming  under  a  heavy  moustache  as  he  exchanged 
laughing  greetings  with  his  cousin. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  performed  the  little  ceremony  of 
introduction.  Then  tea  was  brought  in. 

"  You  will  excuse  this  outer  darkness,  Clytie,"  said 
Caroline.  "  George  thinks  it  soothing.  You  know  his 
ways.  You  see  what  a  poor  woman  has  to  put  up 
with  ! " 

"  I  agree  with  him,"  said  Clytie.  "  It  is  cosy,  and  it 
seems  to  sanction  foolish  gossip." 

"  Did  you   ever  hear   me  gossip  ? "  asked   Mr.  Far- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  125 

quharson  severely.  "  I  like  it,  Miss  Davenant,  because 
it  induces  a  meditative  frame  of  mind." 

"  And  slumber,"  murmured  his  wife  as  she  dispensed 
the  tea. 

The  talk  continued  light  and  easy,  on  the  topics  of 
the  day,  the  studios,  Thornton's  plans  for  the  enjoyment 
of  civilised  life.  He  spoke  brightly,  in  a  deep,  resonant 
voice,  that  of  a  man  assured  of  himself  and  of  the 
interest  afforded  to  others  by  reference  to  his  own 
doings.  Although  the  subject  was  trivial,  the  others 
listened  amusedly,  carried  away  by  the  influence  of  a 
strong  personality.  Clytie  glanced  at  him  from  time  to 
time,  trying  to  measure  him,  to  sum  him  up  in  the 
instinctive  feminine  way.  But  he  was  sitting  far  back 
from  the  fire,  in  the  gloom,  and  she  could  only  gather  a 
general  impression  of  physical  size  and  vitality.  She 
was  conscious  too,  that,  as  she  was  sitting  with  her  face 
in  the  direct  glow,  she  was  visible  to  him,  and  that  he 
was  looking  at  her  quietly  as  he  smoked  his  cigarette 
and  talked.  She  picked  up  a  newspaper  from  a  little 
table  by  her  side,  and  held  it  before  her  face  as  a  screen. 
His  glance,  which  she  felt  rather  than  met,  embarrassed 
her,  she  scarcely  knew  why.  Gradually  the  talk  drifted 
into  a  slight  discussion  between  the  two  men.  Mrs. 
Farquharson  took  advantage  of  it  to  draw  her  chair  near 
to  Clytie. 

"  And  all  this  time  I  have  scarcely  asked  you  a  ques- 
tion about  yourself.  Come,  account  to  me  for  the  six 
weeks  you  have  been  away." 

Clytie  dutifully  went  over  the  main  incidents  of  her 
stay  in  Durdleham,  making  light,  in  her  pleasure  at  be- 
ing in  London  again,  of  the  little  wearinesses  and  de- 
pressions of  the  past.  A  faint  cloud  came  over  her 
gaiety  when  Mrs.  Farquharson  asked  her  suddenly  : 

"  And  Kent  ?     What  has  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  still  alive,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Do  you  know,  he  has  not  been  near  us  all  the  time  you 
have  been  away.  He  has  treated  us  very  badly.  You 
must  scold  him  for  me.  What  has  he  to  say  for  himself  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  haven't  seen  him  yet,  and  I  have 
scarcely  heard  from  him.  I  shall  have  to  scold  him  on 
my  own  account,"  she  added,  brightening. 


126  -AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA. 

"  That's  odd  of  him,"  said  Caroline.  "  You  are  such 
inseparables  that  I  thought  he  would  have  been  waiting 
for  you  with  a  bouquet  in  each  hand  when  you  entered 
the  house." 

Clytie  laughed  at  the  idea  of  Kent  waiting  for  her 
with  Covent  Garden  tributes. 

"  I  would  just  as  soon  think  of  him  reading  me  a 
sonnet.  But  I  did  expect  him  to  come  down  to  tell 
me  I  had  been  wasting  my  time,  and  to  draw  out  a 
scheme  for  the  better  occupation  of  it." 

"  Take  care  that  he  has  not  gone  and  fallen  in  love 
with  somebody  whilst  he  has  been  left  to  his  own  devices," 
said  Caroline  teasingly. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  such  wicked  things  ?  "  cried 
Clytie.  "  Of  course  he  hasn't !  " 

"  One  never  knows,  my  dear.  Men  are  the  most  un- 
reasonable beings  in  the  world.  With  a  woman,  now,  if 
you  know  just  the  least  little  bit  about  her, — it  isn't 
everybody,  of  course,  that  does, — you  can  always  tell 
what  she  is  likely  to  do.  But  with  a  man — never.  Do 
you  think  I  know  whether  that  husband  of  mine  is  going 
to  be  pleased  with  his  dinner  to-night  ?  No,  not  one 
scrap.  And  Kent's  a  man — just  like  the  rest  of  them." 

"  Are  you  talking  about  Kent  ? "  interposed  Mr. 
Farquharson.  "  I  saw  him  the  other  night  at  the  meet- 
ing of  the  Numismatic  Society." 

"  There,  now  !  How  like  a  man  !  And  you  knew  I 
wanted  to  know  what  had  become  of  him.  What  had 
he  to  say  for  himself?" 

"  That  most  of  the  rude  coins  marked  with  the  name 
of  Alfred  were  in  reality  imitations  made  by  the  vikings 
during  their  periodical  visits  to  this  country.  His  re- 
marks were  very  interesting,  my  dear." 

"  Thornton,"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson  in  her  blandest 
tones,  "  would  you  be  so  very  kind  as  to  light  the  gas  ?" 

Her  husband  chuckled  to  himself,  and  Hammerdyke 
rose  to  comply  with  her  request.  During  the  operation 
all  the  three  mechanically  watched  his  movements. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  turning  to  face  them,  "  I  think 
that  is  better ;  we  shall  be  able  to  see  one  another." 

As  the  full  blaze  fell  upon  him  Clytie  could  not 
repress  a  little  feminine  thrill  of  surprise.  Seen  in  the 


AT   THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  127 

vague  darkness  she  had  imagined  him  quite  different. 
He  seemed  to  spring  out  of  it  a  perfect  type  of  physical 
manhood.  He  bore  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  splen- 
did animalism.  The  artist  in  Clytie,  trained  to  detect 
beauties  of  limb  and  set  and  fall  of  muscle,  scanned  him 
for  a  second  with  involuntary  admiration.  Although 
he  was  dressed  with  a  fashionable  tailor's  perfection  of 
fit,  which  generally  gives  suave  uniformity  to  strong  and 
puny,  his  clothes  could  not  conceal  the  evidences  of  a 
magnificent  strength — deep  chest,  arms  that  seemed  to 
fit  tightly  the  coat-sleeves,  broad,  massive  shoulders, 
thick,  powerful  neck.  He  held  his  head  high,  com- 
mandingly,  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  tallness, 
although  he  was  not  much  above  medium  height.  Short- 
cut brown  hair,  clinging  close  to  his  head  in  crisp  waves, 
a  broad  forehead  with  two  thick  vertical  veins,  added  to 
this  impression  of  strength.  In  spite  of  his  thirty-four 
years  the  blood  showed  beneath  his  bronzed  skin,  on 
which  there  were  few  lines.  His  features,  although  on 
a  large  scale,  were  saved  from  coarseness  by  regularity. 
His  under  jaw  was  slightly  heavy,  but  in  keeping  with 
the  massiveness  of  his  limbs.  His  eyes  were  dark  and 
lustrous,  wit,h  a  light  burning  in  their  depths  ;  his  teeth 
white  and  even. 

"When  Hammerdyke  is  fighting  he  is  all  eyes  and 
teeth,"  was  a  saying  that  had  come  to  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son's  ears ;  she  had  repeated  it  long  since  to  Clytie,  who 
remembered  it  now  as  she  beheld  this  hero  of  Caroline's 
for  the  first  time.  He  was  not  fighting  now,  but  laugh- 
ing, talking  with  a  certain  daring  charm  of  manner, 
almost  boyish  sometimes.  The  time  passed  quickly. 
When  the  little  clock  in  the  corner  struck  six  Clytie 
rose  in  some  confusion.  She  had  promised  to  spend 
the  evening  with  Winifred  and  the  children.  She  took 
her  leave  hurriedly. 

A  little  later  she  was  sitting  in  the  Marchpanes'  draw- 
ing-room, with  the  children  clinging  around  her,  a  block 
of  paper  and  a  pencil,  as  usual,  in  her  hand.  And  led 
away  by  a  sudden  fancy  she  drew  pictures  for  them  of 
the  wild  deeds  that  she  had  heard  tell  of  Thornton 
Hammerdyke.  This  was  quite  a  novelty  to  the  children, 
who  were  accustomed  to  street  arabs  and  grotesque 


128  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA, 

caricatures.  They  were  delighted,  hung  on  her  lap, 
demanded  more  pictures  of  soldiers  and  camels  and 
a  great  man  in  a  helmet  killing  savages.  To  satisfy 
them  she  had  to  draw  extensively  upon  her  imagination, 
sometimes  upon  theirs.  Winifred's  suggestions  were 
scouted  as  being  too  mild.  The  final  picture  was  a  great 
triumph.  It  represented  the  same  man  in  the  helmet 
dancing  upon  a  struggling  heap  of  savages,  transfixing 
one  with  a  spear  held  in  his  left  hand,  whilst  with 
a  sword  in  his  right  he  clove  another  in  twain.  Noth- 
ing is  so  fascinating  to  children  as  the  grotesquely 
horrible ;  Clytie  herself  was  carried  away  by  their 
enthusiasm. 

Meanwhile  the  subject  of  this  picture  history  had 
remained  at  Harley  Street  for  a  short  time  after  Clytie's 
departure. 

"  So  that  is  the  Clytie  you  used  to  write  to  me  about 
in  Africa  ?  "  he  said.  "  No  wonder  you  like  having  such 
a  splendid  thing  about  the  place,  as  a  kind  of  inter- 
mittent fixture." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  her,"  said  Caroline. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  liked  her.  I  don't  give  myself  away 
so  soon  as  that.  But,  by  Jove  !  I  liked  looking  at  her. 
Where  is  she  generally  to  be  found  ?" 

"  Either  here  or,  if  you  make  yourself  very  civil  to  her, 
she  may  let  you  go  round  to  her  studio — on  her  day,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  she  runs  a  day,  does  she  ?  These  young  women 
are  getting  very  emancipated." 

"  They  are,"  said  George  Farquharson,  lighting  his 
pipe.  "  So  much  the  better." 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that,"  replied  Hammer- 
dyke.  "  If  they  are  too  emancipated,  they  get  an  idea 
that  their  own  way  is  everything  in  the  world,  and  grow 
devilish  hard  in  the  mouth  when  the  time  comes  for 
them  to  be  pulled  up." 

"  What  a  contradictory  creature  ! "  cried  Caroline. 
"  Only  yesterday  you  were  railing  at  the  well  brought  up 
drawing-room  young  ladies  you  were  having  to  take  in 
to  dinner." 

"  I  should  think  so  :  the  things  that  draw,  recite,  and 
play  the  fiddle,  and  rush  about  to  lectures.  I  am  getting 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  129 

a  bit  too  old  for  that  kind  of  young  animal.  I'd  sooner 
spend  a  week  with  the  wife  of  a  camel  driver  than  with 
any  one  of  them.  She  would  be  just  as  intelligent,  some- 
what funnier,  and  the  advantage  would  be  that  you  could 
lick  her  into  shape  without  alarming  absurd  prejudices. 
No  ;  the  drawing-room  young  lady  is  distinctly  '  off,' 
just  as  much  as  the  over-emancipated." 

"  Well,  what  kind  of  a  young  woman  are  you  looking 
out  for  ?  " 

"  I  never  look  out  for  anything,  my  dear  Caroline.  I 
take  what  comes — if  it  pleases  me." 

"  Then  I  hope  Clytie  will  please  you,  Thornton.  She 
is  quite  different  from  any  other  girl  I  know.  And  it's 
just  her  little  airs  of  emancipation  that  give  her  charm. 
I  wish  there  were  more  like  her." 

"  So  do  I,  by  Jove  !  There  would  be  some  pleasure 
in  looking  around  a  theatre  or  a  ball-room." 

"  Yet  I  should  think  that  was  rather  a  relief  after 
Central  Africa." 

Thornton  broke  into  a  gay  laugh. 

"  Unsophisticated  woman  has  her  good  points,  you 
know  !  " 

"  Um  !  "  said  Farquharson,  pulling  at  his  pipe. 

They  chatted  for  a  little  while  longer.  Then  Ham- 
merdyke  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  I  must  go  and  dress  for  dinner." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Thornton,"  said  Caroline,  "did  you 
not  tell  me  you  had  an  appointment  at  six  ?  I  hope  we 
haven't  kept  you  from  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied  cheerfully  as  he  gathered  up 
his  hat  and  stick.  "  It's  only  Field.  I  dare  say  he's 
waiting  for  me  now.  I  shan't  turn  up  at  the  club,  though. 
He  can  rip.  When  he  is  tired  of  kicking  his  heels  and 
drinking  small  whiskeys  he  can  curse  the  waiter  and 
go.  I  must  be  off  now.  Let  me  know  when  Clytie  is 
on  view  again  and  I'll  throw  over  anybody." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  smiled  indulgently.  In  her  eyes 
there  was  no  one  like  Thornton. 

"  Thornton  is  a  bit  of  an  egotist,"  said  George  mildly 
to  his  wife,  later  in  the  evening,  when  they  were  alone 
together.  He  was  not  addicted  to  the  hyperbolic,  like 
Caroline. 


13°  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Oh,  but,  George,  he  is  such  a  dear  good  fellow — and 
such  a  splendid  man  !  " 

" '  Quem  sese  ore  ferens  !  quam  forti  pectore  et 
armis  ! '  "  murmured  her  husband. 

Now  George  Farquharson  knew  that  if  there  was  one 
thing  his  wife  disliked  it  was  that  he  should  quote  Latin 
at  her.  It  generally  occasioned  a  distraction.  If  it 
failed,  he  translated.  The  effects  of  that  were  certain. 
This  time  Mrs.  Farquharson  was  content  to  allow  his 
remark  to  remain  "  veiled  in  the  obscurity  of  a  learned 
language." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"I  DO  wish  you  would  cheer  up,  old  chap,"  said 
Wither  sympathetically.  "  You  are  getting  uncomfort- 
able— like  Mr.  Mantalini's  body,  in  the  midst  of  our 
joyousness." 

He  was  lying  curled  up,  a  susual,  on  the  sofa,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette.  Kent  was  brooding  over  the  fire.  Fair- 
fax had  been  rallying  him  from  a  doctor's  point  of  view, 
and  he  had  answered  vaguely,  striving  not  to  let  his 
friend's  rough  kindness  jar  too  unbearably.  He  felt 
relieved  when  the  doctor  was  called  out  to  see  a  patient, 
and  Wither  and  himself  were  left  alone  together. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  making  an  ass  of  myself.  I  have 
never  felt  miserable  before  in  all  my  life,  and  it  must  be 
that  I  am  unused  to  it " 

"  It  gets  in  your  way  like  a  man's  court-sword  on  the 
first  time  of  wearing,"  said  Wither. 

"  Somewhat,"  replied  Kent,  with  a  short  laugh.  He 
did  not  mind  Wither's  jesting.  It  came  spontaneously 
from  the  small,  bright-eyed  man — was  in  fact  his  natural 
language.  "  Perhaps  it  does.  I'll  get  over  it  some  day." 

"  It  will  be  all  right  when  she  comes  back." 

"  She  has  come  back." 

"When?" 

"  Nearly  a  week  ago." 

"  And  how  are  matters  going  between  you  ? " 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  said  Kent  moodily,  staring 
into  the  fire.  "  That  is  to  say,  I  have  seen  her.  I  have 
lain  in  wait  for  her,  so  as  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  as 
she  passed  by.  But  1  have  not  met  her." 

"  And  when  do  you  propose  going  to  see  her?" 

"  God  knows  !     I  don't." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  this  is  fin  de  sihle  or  whether 
it  belongs  to  the  glacial  epoch,"  said  Wither,  drawing 
a  breath  of  bewilderment.  "  At  any  rate,  has  it  never 


132  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

struck  you,  friend  John,  that  being  in  love  with  a  woman 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  rude  to  her?" 

"  I  have  scarcely  thought  of  that." 

"  Then,  by  Jove,  the  sooner  you  can  get  it  into  your 
muddled  head,  the  better.  What  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself  these  evenings  ? " 

"  Anything  to  keep  away.  A  meeting  of  the  Geologi- 
cal, another  of  the  Numismatic — a  theatre,  where  there 
was  just  such  another  ass  as  myself.  I  couldn't  stand 
it,  so  I  went  out  and  turned  into  the  Empire  and  tried 
to  find  comfort  in  performing  dogs.  I  have  also  dined 
out." 

"  You  must  have  been  a  cheerful  lot.  What  did  you 
say  to  your  partner  ? " 

"  Nothing.  She  wanted  to  babble  on,  and  I  let  her 
babble.  Curse  the  whole  thing ! "  he  cried,  smiting 
a  block  of  coal  with  the  poker,  so  hard  that  the  chips 
flew  over  the  hearthrug  ;  "  To  think  that  it  should  be 
my  fate  to  meet  the  only  woman  in  the  whole  world  who 
doesn't  babble ! " 

"  I  should  consider  it  in  the  light  of  a  privilege,"  said 
Wither. 

The  next  morning,  after  a  night's  agony  of  indecision, 
he  plucked  up  courage  and  tapped  at  the  studio  door. 
He  entered.  Clytie  was  alone,  busily  preparing  her 
palette.  She  paused  with  the  half-squeezed  tube  in  her 
hand,  and  looked  up  at  him  without  rising,  her  brows 
slightly  knitted.  He  remained  motionless,  too,  on  the 
threshold,  after  mechanically  shutting  the  door  behind 
him.  He  tried  to  utter  the  little  address  of  lame  excuses 
which  he  had  framed,  but  the  words  stuck,  somehow,  in 
his  throat.  He  was  only  conscious  that  she  was  there, 
in  the  same  room  with  him  again,  looking  bewilderingly 
fresh  and  beautiful  in  her  dark  dress,  with  its  dainty 
painting-apron,  too  simple  almost  for  the  rich  colour  of 
her  eyes  and  hair  and  the  stately  bend  of  her  neck. 
Yet  even  then  he  noticed  she  was  a  trifle  paler  than 
usual. 

"  I  meant  to  have  come  to  see  you  before,"  he 
stammered. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ?  I  rather  expected  you,"  she  re- 
plied calmly. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  133 

She  finished  sqeezing  her  tube,  and  taking  up  her 
palette-knife,  went  on  with  her  occupation.  Kent,  in- 
stinctively conscious  that  it  is  a  disadvantage  to  stand, 
when  morally  wrong,  before  a  sitting  person  who  is  in 
the  right,  drew  Winifred's  painting-stool  away  from  the 
easel  and  sat  down. 

"You  might  have  come  in,  if  only  for  five  minutes," 
said  Clytie,  as  he  made  no  reply.  The  hand  holding  the 
palette-knife  trembled  a  little. 

"  I  wanted  to,"  replied  Kent,  finding  words  with  diffi- 
culty. "  But  I  couldn't.  I  am  very,  very  sorry  if  I  have 
been  rude.  I  am  always  doing  things  of  this  sort.  " 

"  It  is  not  very  pleasant  for  your  friends;  and  I  sup- 
pose we  have  been  friends." 

"  Yes,  we  have  been  friends,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  hope 
we  shall  continue  so — if  you  will  forgive  me." 

His  voice  sounded  strange  in  his  own  ears.  In 
Clytie's  it  sounded  cold  and  formal.  She  was  puzzled. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  forgive  you!  You  have  made  your 
apology." 

"  Believe  me — things  have  happened.  I  could  not 
come  before,  indeed  I  could  not." 

"  I  never  doubted  your  word,  Kent,"  said  Clytie,  with 
a  touch  of  her  old  soft  manner  towards  him.  "  Only  it 
seemed  strange  not  to  see  you.  One  gets  into  a  certain 
groove,  and  a  change  from  it  jars.  You  see  how  easy  it 
is  to  become  a  Philistine.  You  are  much  more  a  child 
of  the  light  than  I  am,  in  that  you  have  got  out  of  the 
groove  quite  easily." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  said  Kent,  rising. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  have  not,"  said  Clytie,  bending  in- 
tently over  her  palette.  "  Anyhow,  the  fact  remains  that 
we  parted  friends  before  Christmas,  and  now  that  I  have 
come  back  you  are  changed.  I  am  very  sorry — sorrier 
than  I  can  say.  I  have  valued  your  friendship  and  the 
help  it  has  given  me — I  am  unchanged,  I  think  so — and, 
to  be  franker  than  my  sex  generally  is,  I  may  say,  I  am 
hurt." 

Kent  misunderstood.  He  could  not  help  it.  He 
thought  she  was  grieved  at  his  friendship  having  changed 
to  love,  which  the  tone  in  her  voice  told  him  could  not 
be  returned,  All  had  happened  just  as  he  had  antici- 


134  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

pated.  She  spoke  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger  ;  that 
was  the  only  difference. 

"  If  you  would  prefer  that  I  did  not  see  you  again — 
or  so  often,"  he  said,  twisting  the  brim  of  his  hat. 

The  words  estranged  them  still  further.  They  were 
pathetic  in  their  ludicrous  inappositeness. 

"That  you  must  please  yourself  about,"  replied  Clytie, 
with  a  quick  flush.  "  I  have  said  all  that  my  pride  will 
let  me  say  in  the  matter.  If  you  prefer  to  break  off  our 
intercourse,  well — so  be  it !  " 

"  You  know  that  I  don't  wish  to  do  that,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "  Let  me  see  you  sometimes.  Could  I  see 
you  this  evening,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  am  sorry,  I  am  going — I  am  dining  out.  Some 
other  time.  You  know  my  houis." 

He  stepped  forward  and  shook  hands  with  her  to  say 
good-bye,  thus  breaking  through  an  established  custom 
between  them  of  non-handshaking.  He  reflected  on 
this  a  moment,  ^terward.  It -seemed  an  omen  of  the 
dissolution  of  their  friendship. 

When  he  had  gone  Clytie  felt  as  if  she  would  like  to 
cry?  What  did  it  all  mean?  Why  did  Kent  wish  to 
break  with  her  ?  She  put  down  her  palette  and  sat  in 
her  chair  near  the  stove.  She  felt  unhappy,  lonely. 
She  was  in  that  strange  state  of  uncertainty  about  the 
present,  which  often  takes  the  form,  with  women  espe- 
cially in  certain  moods,  of  a  presentiment  of  future  trouble. 
"  I  wish  Winnie  would  come,"  she  half  repeated  to  her- 
self. But  almost  on  top  of  the  thought  entered  one  of 
Mrs.  Gurkins's  curly-haired  children  bringing  her  a  note. 
It  was  from  Winifred,  who  was  suddenly  called  out  of 
town  on  business  and  could  not  come  on  that  day  to  the 
studio.  Clytie  mechanically  tore  up  the  note  and  scat- 
tered the  pieces  over  the  coals.  She  was  not  subject  to 
fits  of  personal  depression — independent  entirely  of  the 
artistic  side  of  her  life.  But  the  air  seemed  charged 
with  disturbing,  conflicting  elements. 

Soon  she  roused  herself  and  went  over  to  her  easel, 
where  for  some  time  she  worked  steadily.  A  lay-figure 
clad  in  a  child's  ragged  frock  stood  near  by  and  she 
painted  in  the  lights  of  the  skirt,  with  mechanical  pre- 
cision of  touch.  But  her  thoughts  were  far  away.  Then 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  135 

the  face  that  she  had  painted  attracted  her  attention.  It 
was  that  of  a  child — merry  and  smiling — but  with  the 
little  London  street  girl's  precocious  wisdom.  It  was 
cleverly  executed.  Clytie  had  seized  the  suggestion  of 
the  everlasting  feminine  in  the  face,  accentuating  it  ever 
so  little.  It  seemed  to  laugh  mockingly  at  her,  out  of 
the  canvas,  as  who  should  say — "  Look  at  me.  Child 
as  I  am,  I  am  as  old  as  the  world,  and  I  can  tell  you 
secrets  that  you  know  not  of." 

"  You  wise  little  witch,"  said  Clytie,  after  a  while, 
standing  back,  with  head  inclined  in  critical  surveyal  of 
her  work.  "  I  wish  you  could  tell  me  what  is  the  matter 
with  Kent." 

And  then  for  the  first  time  Mrs.  Farquharson's  idle, 
jesting  words  came  into  her  mind  : 

"  Take  care  that  he  has  not  gone  and  fallen  in  love 
with  somebody  !  " 

And  the  child's  old  face  seemed  to  add  a  mocking 
confirmation. 

This  would  explain  all  :  his  sudden  change,  the  stiff- 
ness of  his  letter ;  his  shrinking  from  seeing  her  ;  the 
awkwardness  of  his  apology  ;  the  vague  phrase,  "things 
have  happened,"  which  had  puzzled  her.  The  more 
she  thought  of  it  the  more  probable  did  this  solution 
seem.  It  caused  her  a  little  heaviness  of  heart.  Certain 
strange  imaginings  had  come  to  her,  too,  this  week.  She 
needed  the  strength  of  Kent's  friendship. 

There  are  no  persons  harder  to  read  and  easier  to 
misunderstand  than  those  of  whom  we  are  fondest. 
There  are  two  common  causes  of  mutual  miscompre- 
hension. First  we  take  it  too  much  for  granted  that 
we  can  read  the  heart  of  another  human  being ;  and 
secondly,  we  are  too  apt  to  conclude  that  affinities 
sharpen  perception  to  such  an  extent  that  the  unexpressed 
becomes  luminously  expressive.  This  is  a  curious  fact, 
too  little  recognised  in  our  minor  problems  in  social 
statics.  Clytie  had  fallen  into  the  one  error,  Kent  into 
the  other. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Clytie  felt  afraid.  The 
sense  of  what  was  missing  in  her  life  dawned,  half 
shadowy,  before  her.  She  was  different  from  other  girls 
of  her  age,  more  advanced,  as  the  phrase  goes.  For 


I36  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  majority  of  women  come  in  ignorance  to  emotion  ; 
they  feel,  before  they  realise  that  they  are  learning. 
But  Clytie  in  her  eager  search  after  the  roots  of  existence 
had  learned  much,  with  feelings  as  yet  untried.  In  this 
knowledge,  if  as  yet  there  was  no  sorrow,  there  was  fear. 
If  Kent  had  come  to  her  at  this  moment  with  a  passionate 
avowal  of  his  love,  she  would  have  yielded  to  him.  Her 
fear  would  have  melted  away  into  joyousness,  the  rich 
springs  of  her  nature  would  have  been  opened,  and  her 
destiny  would  have  been  accomplished.  But  neither  of 
them  knew  this.  He  was  engaged  in  the  humorous  task 
of  trying  to  kill  love,  and  she  was  half  consciously  tend- 
ing along  a  path  strangely  diverging  from  his. 

She  dined  that  evening  at  the  Farquharsons'.  Ham- 
merdyke  was  the  only  other  guest.  It  was  a  bright, 
cosy  meal,  and  Clytie  soon  forgot  her  depression  of  the 
morning.  Caroline  was  at  her  merriest,  proud  of  her 
three  companions — of  each  in  an  especial  manner. 
George  was  mildly  satirical,  as  usual.  He  wore  his 
velvet  jacket,  in  which  he  found  more  happiness  than 
in  his  ceremonial  dress-coat.  His  dry  touch  of  humour 
was  pleasantly  antagonistic  to  Hammerdyke's  stronger 
personality  and  downright  views  of  life.  The  latter 
laughed  heartily,  almost  boyishly  at  his  rebuker,  like 
one  who  is  accustomed  to  indulgence  on  the  part  of 
others  for  caprices  of  action  and  language.  These, 
coming  from  a  lesser  man,  might  have  been  repugnant 
to  the  sensitive  ;  but  from  him  they  seemed  to  bear  a 
physical  justification. 

As  he  sat  opposite  her,  talking  in  off-hand,  picturesque 
fashion  of  incidents  in  his  adventurous  life,  Clytie  could 
not  help  looking  with  a  feeling  somewhat  akin  to  awe  at 
the  man  who  had  gone  through  such  things  and  could 
speak  of  them  so  lightly.  She  listened,  interposed  a 
question  here  and  there,  wondered  what  it  would  feel 
like  to  treat  those  memories  in  so  familiar  a  fashion.  A 
new  page  of  life  seemed  to  lie  open  before  her,  quiver- 
ing with  sensations  beyond  her  ken. 

"  Didn't  you  ever  feel  horribly  afraid  ?  "  asked  Caro- 
line, while  he  was  sketching  some  of  his  more  recent 
exploring  experiences. 

"I  did  so,"   he  confessed   frankly,  "but   I   had   my 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  137 

devils  well  under  control.  I  had  the  power  to  string  a 
mutineer  up  on  the  nearest  tree  or  to  pot  him  with  my 
revolver,  and  somehow  they  rather  funked  me.  If  it  had 
entered  their  woolly  heads  to  go  for  me  all  together  they 
would  have  made  short  work  of  me — but  no  one  liked 
to  take  the  initiative." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  kindness,  on  these  expeditions — 
by  way  of  experiment  ?  "  asked  Farquharson. 

"  Not  much.  You  can't  afford  to  fool  away  your  life 
for  the  sake  of  an  experiment.  Oh,  no  !  my  dear  sir,  the 
noble  savage  does  not  swarm  much  round  about  the 
slave  tracks  in  Central  Africa.  The  Zulus  may  be 
different.  I  don't  know — I've  never  seen  much  of 
them — but  Fuzzywuz  and  his  neighbours  can  only  under- 
stand brute  force." 

"I  don't  quite  see,  now,  how  you  got  all  that  power," 
said  Farquharson.  "Did  you  establish  yourself  as  a 
little  king — or  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  returned  Hammerdyke,  laughing.  "  When 
I  had  finished  with  the  Soudan  I  wanted  to  while  away 
a  few  months  in  the  interior,  and  as  the  Belgians  wanted 
a  road  made  through  the  forest  I  offered  to  see  things 
were  done  straight  for  them.  As  for  the  authority — 
judicial  and  that  sort  of  thing — one  takes  that  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  The  niggers  don't  know  anything  about 
it,  except  that  there  is  a  white  man  bossing  them.  They 
think  it's  all  right,  so  what  does  it  matter  ? " 

"  Then  you  hire  a  set  of  woolly-headed  navvies,  and 
if  they  lapse  from  your  standard  of  virtue,  you  shoot 
them — is  that  the  idea  ?  " 

"  Somewhat.  In  mere  slips  one  employs  the  argumen- 
tum  adbacculinum.  It  isn't  pleasant,  but  it's  the  only  way." 

"  You  are  not  going  back  again,  are  you,  Thornton  ?  " 
Caroline  asked,  wishing  to  turn  the  conversation.  She 
believed  in  Thornton,  in  his  power  by  divine  right  to 
blow  all  the  tribes  of  Central  Africa  from  the  cannon's 
mouth  if  it  so  pleased  him,  but  she  saw  that  George  was 
not  sympathetic.  It  was  a  sore  little  point  with  her  that 
her  husband  did  not  share  all  her  enthusiasm  for  Thorn- 
ton. "You  are  going  to  settle  down  now,  really  ?"  she 
added. 

"  Who  knows  ? "   he   replied.      "  All   things  become 


138  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

monotonous  after  a  time — even  playing  potentate.  That's 
why  I  am  here — with  the  intention  of  giving  civilisation  a 
chance.  Some  fine  morning  I  may  wake  up  and  think 
that  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  little  excitement,  and 
then  I  may  pack  up  my  things  and  start  for  No  Man's 
Land  again." 

"It  must  be  a  stirring  life,"  said  Clytie  half  aloud, 
with  a  quick  glance  at  Hammerdyke. 

"  It  is  the  best  life.  Action,  excitement,  keen  enjoy- 
ment of  everything !  You  should  take  a  turn  at  it, 
George." 

But  George  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  a  wife  dependent  upon  me.  Otherwise  you 
may  be  sure  I  would  leave  this  effete  and  effeminate 
civilisation  and  start  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  do  much  good  out  there," 
said  Mrs.  Farquharson  candidly. 

They  finished  dinner  early  and  went  up  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, which  not  long  afterwards  was  filled  with  the 
heterogeneous  crowd  that  the  Farquharsons  loved  to 
gather  round  them.  This  reception  was  instead  of  the 
ordinary  Sunday  one,  and  was  in  Thornton's  honour, 
although  it  was  not  unusual  for  Caroline  thus  to  change 
her  evening,  scattering  warning  post-cards  the  day  be- 
fore. Kent,  being  on  the  list,  had  received  one  that 
morning,  and  before  he  saw  Clytie  had  been  half  wonder- 
ing whether  he  should  go  to  Harley  Street.  So  he  had 
put  his  question  as  to  Clytie's  evening  engagement  tenta- 
tively. Her  somewhat  evasive  reply  had  decided  him. 
He  would  not  inflict  his  society  upon  her.  As  Clytie's 
eye  wandered  over  the  familiar  figures  in  the  drawing- 
room,  she  involuntarily  sought  for  Kent's.  It  seemed 
strange  that  he  should  not  be  there,  for  during  the 
autumn  he  had  scarcely  missed  a  Sunday.  One  or  two 
friends  came  up  and  asked  after  him.  On  the  occasion 
of  one  inquiry,  Mrs.  Farquharson  and  Thornton  were 
standing  by  her. 

"Who  is  Kent  that  everybody  is  talking  about — if  I 
may  ask  ?"  said  Hammerdyke. 

"  Kent  ?  "  interposed  Caroline.  "  Oh  if  you  know 
Clytie,  you  must  know  Kent.  They  are  a  kind  of  Mentor 
and  Egeria  combination." 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  139 

"That's  lucid,"  said  Hammerdyke,  laughing.  "I 
hope  you  will  present  me  to  him  one  of  these  days,  Miss 
Davenant."  Clytie  replied  with  a  commonplace,  smiling 
absently.  She  was  sad  at  heart  about  Kent. 

Soon  Redgrave,  the  R.  A.  who  had  given  Clytie  her 
first  encouragement  in  her  art,  came  up  to  talk  with  her. 
He  had  been  following  her  career  with  some  interest. 
Since  the  exhibition  of  "  Jack  "  he  had  not  seen  her, 
and  he  took  the  opportunity  of  offering  his  congratula- 
tions, criticising  the  picture  favourably.  Then  he  in- 
quired after  its  successor. 

"  But  I  don't  think  you  will  ever  become  a  great 
artist,  if  you  keep  to  that  semi-impressionist  style." 

Being  a  portrait-painter  of  exquisite  finish,  Redgrave 
was  prejudiced  against  the  school  of  Degas.  He  men- 
tioned his  name  with  some  acerbity. 

"  Talking  treason  again,  Redgrave  ?  "  asked  a  thin, 
wiry  man  in  gold  spectacles,  who  had  overheard. 
"  Don't  listen  to  him,  Miss  Davenant.  He  is  archaic  and 
eating  his  soul  out  with  jealousy.  There's  no  one  in 
England  who  can  touch  you  in  your  particular  line. 
You  stick  to  it !  " 

"You  are  quoting  the  rubbish  you  wrote  in  your 
paper,  French,"  said  Redgrave,  laughing.  "  Now, 
whom  are  you  going  to  believe,  this  newspaper  man 
or  me  ?  " 

"Whoever  will  help  me  best  to  sell  my  pictures," 
laughed  Clytie. 

"  Then  leave  your  future  with  me,"  said  Mr.  French, 
rubbing  his  hands  as  he  moved  away. 

"  You  didn't  mean  that  ?"  asked  Redgrave. 

"  A  little.  One  must  live.  Higher  art,  to  use  the 
cant  phrase,  would  satisfy  one's  soul's  needs  better — but 
it  would  not  those  of  the  body." 

Redgrave  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  meditating 
over  her  rich  colouring  and  fine  vitality.  A  body  such 
as  hers  had  its  needs.  He  smiled  a  little  sadly  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  You  would  not  sacrifice  your  life  for  your  art  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Clytie,  with  quick  frankness, "  I  wouldn't. 
The  fuller  one's  life,  the  fuller  one's  art.  The  one  is  a 
reflection  of  the  other.  At  least  it  is  so  with  me." 


140  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I'll  paint  your  portrait  one  of  these  days  for  nothing,'5 
said  Redgrave  somewhat  irrelevantly. 

Clytie  flushed  a  little  at  the  compliment. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  put  into  me  ?" 

"  The  question  whether  even  the  most  emancipated  of 
young  women  ever  has  art  in  her  soul,"  said  Redgrave, 
with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  I  am  going  to  paint  a  picture  some  day  that  will 
astonish  you,"  replied  Clytie,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Ah  !  So  is  everyone.  When  will  that  some  day  be? 
I  hardly  know  a  painter  or  a  writer  or  a  musician  that 
has  not  something  he  is  going  to  do  some  day — a  three- 
act  drama  all  ready,  bar  transcription  on  paper — a 
masterpiece  all  complete,  bar  the  mechanical  transference 
to  canvas." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Redgrave,  if  you  are  going  to  moralise 
like  that,  I'll  report  you  to  Mr.  Farquharson.  You 
had  much  better  sit  down  and  take  me  round  the 
studios." 

But  Redgrave  was  carried  off  before  he  had  time  to 
begin,  and  Clytie  joined  a  large  group  standing  and  sit- 
ting round  the  fire.  They  were  the  younger,  less 
responsible  members  of  the  company,  and  were  talking 
nonsense.  Singleton,  a  clean-shaven,  red-faced  man 
and  a  minor  poet,  was  explaining  what  he  called  the 
Physical  Basis  of  Life.  Professor  Huxley,  by  the 
way,  has  treated  the  subject  differently. 

"  The  man  who  cannot  dine,"  Mr.  Singleton  was  say- 
ing, "  cannot  feel.  He  has  not  his  proper  equipment  of 
senses.  He  is  an  imperfection,  a  waster." 

"  That  does  not  apply  to  women,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs. 
Tredegar,  a  languid,  well-preserved  woman,  who  was  sus- 
pected of  hankerings  after  a  long  defunct  aestheticism. 
"I  have  been  feeling  all  my  life — and  I  can't  remember 
to  have  ever  dined." 

"  I  did  once — at  the  Caf£  Anglais.  By  Jove,  it  was 
good  ! "  interpolated  a  fair-haired  youth,  who  leaped 
eagerly  at  objectivities  in  the  conversation. 

"Your  enthusiasm  does  you  credit  !  "  said  Singleton. 
"You'll  die  yet,  of  a  hopeless  passion." 

Then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Tredegar : 

"  Of  course  it  applies  to  women.    La  femme  qui  dine, 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  141 

aime.  Put  it  into  French,  and  you  see  the  force  of  it  at 
once." 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  put  it  the  other  way  about.  La  femme 

qui  aime It  is  horrible ;  it  takes  all  the  romance 

away,"  said  Mrs.  Tredegar. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  sighed  Mr.  Singleton,  clasping  his  little 
plump  hands  resignedly.  "  Are  we  still  to  adore  the 
well-conducted  person  who  goes  on  cutting  bread  and 
butter  ?  Oh,  believe  me,  Edwin  Smith  and  Angelina 
Brown  can't  love,  any  more  than  they  can  appreciate 
Chateau-Mouton.  They  possess  for  each  other  a  faint 
current  of  sexual  attraction,  which  produces  between  them 
a  mild  excess  of  amiability.  A  lot  of  vanity  comes  in,  as 
they  like  to  parade  the  possession  of  each  other  before 
the  envious.  They  call  themselves  lovers,  and  follow 
the  traditions  they  have  been  taught  in  the  novels  they 
have  misunderstood  and  the  hints  they  have  received 
from  observance  of  their  friends.  The  furthest  they 
can  go  is  to  clasp  hands  limply  under  a  sofa-cushion, 
when  they  think  no  one  is  looking." 

"  That's  humbug,"  said  the  youth.  "  I  have  been  in 
love  myself." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Mr.  Singleton,  "  and  you  know  noth- 
ing at  all  about  it.  Cultivate  all  your  senses  first,  my 
young  friend,  and  then  you  may  fit  yourself  for  falling 
in  love." 

"  And  how  is  one  to  begin?"  asked  Mrs.  Tredegar. 

"  Well,  first  cultivate  a  choice  taste  in  food,  wine,  and 
cigarettes.  Then  disabuse  yourself  of  the  idea  that  the 
angelic,  either  in  man  or  woman,  is  in  any  way  desirable  ; 
purge  yourself  of  that  clog  to  all  true  appreciation  of 
sensation — that  interfering  bugbear  which  still  survives 
with  an  effete  superstition — known  as  a  conscience ; 
get  into  an  Hellenic  state  of  mind  by  joyous  percep- 
tion of  the  beautiful,  and  realise  that  the  supreme  culti- 
vation of  the  ego  is  the  ultima  ratio  of  existence." 

"  But  then  we  should  only  love  ourselves,"  observed 
a  dissentient. 

"  As  self-knowledge  is  the  beginning  of  all  wisdom,  so 
is  self-love  the  beginning  of  all  passion,"  returned  Mr. 
Singleton  oracularly. 

During  the  frivolous  chorus  that  followed  this  remark, 

10 


142  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Hammerdyke  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  by  Clyde's 
side. 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  merry  over  here.  What  is  it 
all  about  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It's  only  Mr.  Singleton  trying  to  play  with  para- 
doxes," Clytie  replied,  laughing.  "  He  is  a  chartered 
libertine,  and  nobody  minds  him." 

"  That  always  strikes  me  as  so  odd  when  I  get  back 
to  civilised  life — the  tremendous  amount  of  talking  one 
has  to  get  through — and  no  one  seems  to  get  any 
further  with  it.  Everybody  seems  bound  to  provide 
himself  with  a  theory  of  life,  as  they  call  it — either  sin- 
cere or  paradoxical.  Why  do  they  do  it  ? " 

He  had  pulled  his  chair  a  little  aside,  so  that,  when 
Clytie  turned  round,  they  were  cut  off  from  the  main 
group  close  by.  She  replied  laughingly  to  his  question, 
and  the  conversation  took  a  light,  personal  turn. 

"  I  seem  to  have  known  you  so  long,"  he  said  after  a 
while,  "and  yet  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  able 
to  say  a  word  to  you  by  yourself.  I  used  to  hear  of 
you,  you  know,  in  Africa,  when  Caroline  sent  me  a 
budget  of  news.  I  used  quite  to  wonder  what  you 
were  like." 

"Caroline  and  I  are  great  friends,"  she  replied. 
"  She  has  been  very,  very  kind  to  me." 

"  Yes — a  good  sort,  isn't  she  ?  She  used  to  keep  me 
posted  up  in  all  kinds  of  things,  as  I  say — you  amongst 
them.  At  last  I  built  up  a  little  romance  about  you  !" 

"  What  a  crash  it  must  have  come  down  with  !  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Time  will  show.  It  was 
just  after  one  of  her  letters  that  I  read  the  story  of 
'  Marjorie  Daw,'  which  some  good  people  sent  me  down 
with  a  package  of  books  from  Cairo.  Do  you  know  it?  " 

"  I  have  read  it,  but  forgotten  it,"  replied  Clytie. 

Now,  she  remembered  it  very  well.  The  words  had 
come  almost  involuntarily.  She  was  a  little  angry  with 
herself.  But  it  was  pleasant  to  lean  back  in  the  arm- 
chair, amidst  the  babel  of  voices  and  heavy  cloud  of 
cigarette  smoke,  and  be  talked  to  thus  pleasantly. 

"  It's  a  pretty  little  tale,"  said  Thornton.  "  A  man 
writes  letters  to  amuse  a  sick  friend — broken  leg,  I 
think — and  describes  an  imaginary  young  lady  living 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  143 

opposite  him.  And  the  broken -legged  man  falls  violently 
in  love  with  this  Marjorie  Daw  and  starts  off  to  see  her 
as  soon  as  he  is  well — and  is  moved  to  much  wrath  when 
he  finds  out  the  truth.  Well,  I  am  afraid  I  must  confess 
that  I  made  a  kind  of  Marjorie  Daw  out  of  you — although 
I  haven't  exactly  come  over  in  search  of  you.  So  you 
see  that  we  are  old  acquaintances — on  one  side,  at  least." 

"  Caroline  must  have  been  saying  very  foolish  things 
about  me,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  remember  Marjorie  Daw 
now.  I  am  not  the  least  bit  like  her." 

"  I  never  said  you  were,"  he  returned,  looking  at  her 
boldly,  a  smile  playing  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
"  I  did  not  think  so  then,  either.  And  since  I  am  in 
for  a  kind  of  confession,  I  may  as  well  say  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  I  should  ever  meet  you.  Now  that  we 
have  met — under  my  cousin's  wing,  so  to  speak — I  hope 
we  shall  make  friends." 

"  You  speak  as  if  we  had  quarrelled,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Well,  I  thought  perhaps  you  might  have  been  a  little 
vexed  at  my  confession.  Are  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Clytie,  looking  at  him  in  her  quick,  frank 
way.  "  Why  should  I  ?  " 

Hammerdyke  did  not  reply,  but  smiled  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  a  little. 

"  Well,  since  you  are  so  particular  as  to  the  wording, 
let  us  be  friends.  For  Caroline's  sake,"  he  added  after 
a  short  pause. 

"  Very  well,  for  Caroline's  sake,"  repeated  Clytie. 
"  Only,  you  know  I  am  a  very  humble  person." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  know  too  much  about  you.  You  are  by 
way  of  becoming  a  great  artist — and  it  would  be  a  privi- 
lege for  an  uncultivated  barbarian  like  me.  Tell  me, 
how  could  we  begin  being  friends  ?  " 

"  Well,  suppose  you  tell  me  some  of  the  wonders  you 
have  seen." 

"  '  Anthropophagi,  or  men  whose  heads  do  grow  be- 
neath their  shoulders  '  ?  Very  well — and  you  shall  show 
me  your  pictures.  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  them 
sometime  or  the  other  ?  Do!  " 

He  spoke  low,  with  a  touch  of  softness  in  his  voice. 
Clytie  felt  flattered,  touched.  It  was  a  little  tribute  to 
her  womanhood  to  be  pleaded  with,  especially  by  a  man 


144  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  was  a  recognised  heroic 
figure.  There  was  a  latent  light,  too,  in  the  depths  of 
his  dark  eyes,  a  sign  of  reserved  power  and  strange,  un- 
known forces,  that  pleased  her  strangely.  All  the  day 
she  had  felt  sore,  ill  at  ease,  with  a  little  aching, 
chafing  sense  of  loss.  The  time  had  seemed  woefully 
out  of  joint,  and  the  setting  of  it  right  again  utterly 
beyond  her  powers.  :But  now  the  world's  equilibrium 
seemed  more  stable. 

"  I  am  not  sure  whether  you  would  care  for  my  pic- 
tures," she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  have  seen  those  that  Caroline  has,"  he  replied. 
"  I  made  her  show  them  to  me.  I  don't  know  what  your 
art  word  is — but  they  seem  to  me  to  have  a  grip  upon 
life  that  I  like." 

He  could  not  have  chosen  words  more  flattering  to 
Clytie.  They  summed  up  bluntly  the  whole  of  her 
ambitions. 

"  You  see,  I  like  real  things,"  he  went  on.  "  Some- 
thing I  can  catch  hold  of.  All  this  talk  of  Art  with  a 
capital  A,  and  metaphysical  preciousness,  is  so  much 
froth — at  any  rate  to  me.  But  perhaps  you  put  a  capital 
to  it  ? " 

"  I  do,  sometimes." 

"  Well,  then,  you  will  teach  me  what  it  means.  Will 
you  ?  It  will  be  a  way  of  teaching  me  something  about 
yourself." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  worth  your  learning,"  replied  Clytie, 
with  a  laugh.  "  But  you  can  come  and  see  my  pictures, 
if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Hammerdyke,  as  he  rose  in 
obedience  to  a  beckoning  glance  from  Mr.  Farquharson, 
who  was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  I  will 
come  as  soon  as  you  will  let  me.  To-morrow,  can  I  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  pleadingly,  admiringly.  Clytie  was 
suddenly  brought  in  contact  with  a  new  force,  against 
which  she  felt  powerless. 

"  Yes,  you  can  come  to-morrow,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IT  was  an  evening  in  mid-February  that  Clytie  went 
to  a  dance  given  by  the  Redgraves  in  their  large  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood.  Redgrave  met  her  almost  as  soon 
as  she  arrived  in  the  dancing-room. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last — we  had  almost  despaired 
of  seeing  you.  I  think  there  are  a  good  many  men  you 
know — all  dying  to  dance  with  you." 

"  Oh,  give  me  a  little  breathing  time,"  laughed  Clytie. 
"You  have  had  time  to  fix  on  your  cap  and  bells,  let 
me  adjust  mine." 

"  Don't  touch  yourself  or  you  would  spoil  the  effect," 
said  Redgrave,  mixing  the  metaphor  for  the  sake  of  an 
opportunity  of  expressing  his  admiration  of  her  beauty. 
"  I  wish  I  could  paint  that  portrait  of  you  now  :  '  Clytie, 
woman  and  artist.'  There  is  one  advantage  about  that 
combination — it  assures  perfect  taste  in  dress." 

He  looked  her  up  and  down  critically,  stroking  his 
long  gray  beard. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  me,"  said  Clytie.  "  It  cost  me 
sleepless  nights,  I  assure  you.  Didn't  you  know  it  was 
my  serious  occupation  in  life?  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  will  have  your  reward," 
replied  Redgrave,  laughing — "  only  you  won't  find  any- 
body who  admires  you  and  your  genius  half  as  heartily 
as  I  do." 

He  nodded,  smiled,  and  left  her  as  one  or  two  men 
came  up  to  her,  programme  in  hand.  She  gave  them 
the  dances  they  requested,  and  took  a  seat  near  the 
door  by  the  side  of  some  ladies  of  her  acquaintance, 
watching  animatedly  the  waltz  that  was  in  progress. 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Davenant,"  said  a  voice,  deep 
and  resonant,  that  made  her  start  and  the  colour  mount 
into  her  cheeks. 

It  was  Thornton  Hammerdyke. 


146  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

"  You  see  I  procured  the  invitation,  and  here  I  am. 
Where  is  your  programme  ?  " 

He  took  her  card  attached  with  its  bit  of  silk  to  her 
fan,  and  scribbled  recklessly. 

"  You  have  nearly  filled  it  all  up  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Naturally,"  he  replied.  "  Let  us  dance  out  the  fag- 
end  of  this." 

She  took  his  arm  gaily,  and  with  him  entered  the  whirl 
of  dancers. 

"  You  are  looking  dazzling  to-night,"  he  said.  "  What 
witchery  have  you  to  make  your  eyes  so  blue  and  your 
hair  so  glorious  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled  half  inwardly,  thinking 
of  Redgrave's  late  compliment  and  differentiating  it  from 
this.  Each  man  was  honest,  in  his  own  way. 

"  I  put  myself  down  for  all  those  dances,"  he  went  on, 
"  because  there  is  not  a  woman  in  the  room  fit  to  look 
at  after  you.  I  couldn't  dance  with  them,  and  I  should 
have  been  bored  and  irritated  with  standing  and  watch- 
ing you  dancing  with  other  people.  Then  we  can  get 
away  and  sit  by  ourselves." 

"  But  what  are  all  the  men  to  do,  to  whom  I  have  to 
be  polite  ? " 

"  They  must  give  way  to  the  man  to  whom  you  are 
always  fascinating.  I  scarcely  saw  you  at  all  yesterday. 
Now  is  my  chance,  and  I  am  going  to  make  the  most  of 
it." 

"  Yes,  but  there  are  the  sacred  conventionalities." 

"I  thought  you  went  in  for  being  superior  to  them." 

"So  I  am  in  a  general  way  ;  I  attach  no  intrinsic  value 
to  them — but  they  are  useful  as  counters  in  one's  deal- 
ings." 

He  laughed ;  pressed  the  fingers  that  he  held  in  his 
left  hand. 

"  To-night  no  checks  are  taken  !  It  must  be  all  solid 
gold — the  true,  real  Clytie.  As  for  people  talking,  you* 
are  glorious  enough  in  your  beauty  to  defy  them.  What 
can  you  and  I  care  for  idle  gossip  ? " 

The  words  thrilled  through  her.  Womanlike  she  had 
humbled  herself  before  his  greatness.  To  be  raised 
thus  by  him  to  his  empyrean,  whence  they  could  look 
down  upon  the  rest  of  earth-bound  mortality,  in  com- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  147 

mon  grandeur,  made  her  heart  swell  with  a  not  ignoble 
pride. 

"  We  shall  do  whatever  you  like,"  she  whispered. 

To  this  pitch  of  intimacy  had  the  past  three  weeks 
brought  them — a  long  enough  period  for  an  infinite 
number  of  things  to  happen — none  the  less  real  for 
being  subjective.  Nothing  had  changed  in  their  exter- 
nal lives.  Hammerdyke  went  into  society,  read  a  paper 
here  and  there  o'n  his  travels,  digested  many  bad  dinners 
and  worse  flattery,  played  cards,  smoked,  and  drank 
with  his  fellows.  Clytie  painted  assiduously,  read, 
exchanged  visits  with  her  friends.  Kent  was  missing 
from  her  life.  She  saw  him  rarely,  at  odd  moments, 
when  they  talked  commonplaces  and  avoided  by  tacit 
consent  the  subject  of  their  disunion.  They  were 
"  league-sundered  by  the  silent  gulf  between."  He  told 
her  that  he  was  thinking  of  accepting  an  offer  privately 
made  to  him  by  one  of  the  heads  of  his  department,  of 
leave  of  absence  for  three  months  for  the  purpose  of 
studying  the  numismatic  collections  of  certain  foreign 
capitals.  The  prospect  was  enticing,  as  he  could  thus 
have  the  run  of  the  continental  libraries,  whereby  his  own 
great  work  could  be  considerably  advanced. 

Clytie  listened  kindly,  wished  him  good  luck.  He 
went  from  her  sad  at  heart,  and  she  was  angry  with  her- 
self and  humiliated  at  feeling  somewhat  relieved  at  the 
idea  of  his  absence.  It  was  not  that  she  regretted  the 
old  life  less.  Its  memories  were  still  precious.  But 
Kent's  departure  would  clear  the  way  to  a  better  under- 
standing of  herself. 

Much  had  happened  during  the  past  three  weeks — the 
discovery  of  a  new  world  for  Clytie  in  which  all  was 
strange,  beset  with  vague  dangers,  vibrating  with  a 
tremulous  joy  akin  to  terror.  She  had  been  lifted  off 
her  feet,  hurried  against  her  will  into  a  whirl  of  new 
sensations.  At  first  she  resisted  with  fierce  virgin 
pride  ;  then  gradually  she  began  to  close  her  eyes  for 
a  short  sweet  spell  and  allow  herself  to  be  drifted  by  the 
current  ;  finally  she  gave  up  struggling.  The  history 
of  most  women  at  their  first  contact  with  passion. 

The  story  of  this  period  is  very  simple.      In  its  first 


148  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

developments  love  is  usually  not  ultra  complex.  Given 
a  man  and  a  woman  and  conditions  for  meeting  freely 
alone  ;  further,  a  sudden  overmastering  passion  on  the 
part  of  the  man,  a  half  known,  unfulfilled  need  in  the 
woman  ;  given  these  premises,  and  a  child  can  deduce 
the  result.  It  is  the  fundamental  law  of  sex.  Only 
when  the  sentimentalities  and  more  delicate  affinities 
come  into  play,  when  the  needs  of  the  finer  animal  man 
begin  to  cry  after  their  satisfying,  does  love  leave  its 
simple  phase  and  gird  itself  with  its  infinite  many- 
coloured  web  of  complexities.  At  first  the  mind  may 
see  the  web  glimmering  in  a  far-away  twilight — but  heeds 
it  not  as  long  as  the  sense  is  held  captive. 

Two  remarkable  personalities  had  met,  Thornton 
Hammerdyke  and  Clytie.  With  the  intensity  of  a  strong 
animal  nature  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her,  with  her 
beauty,  charm,  and  directness.  Her  magnificent  vitality 
drew  him,  compelled  him.  He  shut  his  eyes  to  every 
other  interest.  The  sense  that  he  wanted  her  was  suffi- 
cient justification  for  setting  all  else  aside.  He  never 
even  thought  of  marriage  in  the  first  flush  of  his  passion. 
But  that  was  the  result  of  habit.  Passion  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  from  the  serene  considerations  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  induce  people  to 
enter  into  the  holy  state  of  matrimony — and  Thornton 
was  quite  free  from  any  considerations  of  the  kind.  So 
that  when  marriage  dawned  upon  his  mind  as  a  neces- 
sary condition,  he  accepted  it,  as  a  reckless  sacrifice,  as  a 
means  to  an  end,  not  as'an  end  in  itself.  He  was  a  man 
whose  life  had  been  passed  in  hot,  headstrong  action. 
Desire  imperiously  compelled  immediate  gratification. 
Since  loving  Clytie  entailed  marriage,  he  resolved  to 
marry  her  forthwith. 

He  informed  Mrs.  Farquharson  of  the  fact,  in  his 
masterful  manner. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Clytie — so  get  yourself  a  wed- 
ding garment."  Mrs.  Farquharson  jumped  up,  clapped 
her  hands.  She  would  not  have  been  a  woman  had  the 
possibilities  of  this  match  not  occurred  to  her  seduc- 
tively. The  announcement,  however,  anticipated  her 
hopes. 

"  Oh,  Thornton,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  so  glad  !  I  have 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  149 

been  longing  for  it.  You  two  are  made  for  each  other. 
I  must  go  down  and  see  Clytie  this  afternoon  !  " 

"  Better  not,"  said  Thornton.  "  I'm  going.  Besides, 
I  don't  think  Clytie  knows  it  yet." 

Caroline's  face  fell  a  little.  "  Oh !  I  thought  you 
meant  you  were  engaged,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  That's  a  detail — it  doesn't  matter.  She's  going 
to  marry  me,  and  you'll  come  and  dance  at  the 
wedding." 

Caroline  kept  her  counsel,  but  she  worked  steadily  in 
Thornton's  cause,  sang  his  praises  to  Clytie,  invented 
many  occasions  for  bringing  them  together.  She  believed 
with  all  the  fervent  loyalty  of  her  nature  that  this  mar- 
riage was  an  ideal  one  for  her  cousin  and  her  friend, 
and  had  at  heart  equally  the  interests  of  each. 

Thornton  very  quickly  constituted  himself  a  factor  in 
Clytie's  life.  She  saw  him  almost  every  day  in  Harley 
Street,  at  home,  or  at  the  houses  of  common  acquaintances. 
His  influence  grew  strong  upon  her.  Glimpses  of  the 
physical  joy  of  life  flashed  before  her  like  revelations. 
For  the  first  time  she  doubted  the  possibilities  of  the 
artistic  life.  They  seemed  shadowy,  unsatisfying. 

From  Thornton  seemed  to  come  realisation  that  some- 
thing stronger,  more  real,  positive  lay  beyond  them — 
the  delight  of  living  in  pulse  and  nerve  and  bodily  fibre. 
Yet,  unlike  a  man,  a  woman  cannot  live  by  sense  alone. 
Sentiment  invariably  plays  its  part.  This  in  Clytie's  case 
was  fed  by  the  glamour  of  Thornton's  heroic  history,  so 
different  from  that  of  ordinary  men,  whose  lives,  com- 
pared with  his,  seemed  tame  and  colourless.  The  glow 
of  his  personality  bathed  magically  all  his  actions,  all  his 
words.  In  his  superb  manhood  he  stood  before  her  eyes 
as  the  incarnation  of  physical  force,  the  victorious  pro- 
test against  the  shams  of  art,  culture,  and  other  pale 
shades  of  our  morbid  civilisation.  When  she  was  lifted 
high  with  him  in  this  triumph,  sense  and  sentiment  were 
fused  together  and  she  was  wholly  at  his  mercy.  Thorn- 
ton had  come  into  her  life  at  the  most  delicately  critical 
moment  of  a  woman's  career,  when  the  current  of  her 
nature,  checked  at  the  turning-point  between  friendship 
and  love,  struggles  tumultuously  for  some  other  channel 
into  which  to  empty  itself. 


150  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  We  shall  do  whatever  you  like,"  she  said  to  Thorn- 
ton, during  their  waltz.  It  was  the  first  definite  sur- 
render she  had  made  to  him.  She  was  surprised  that  it 
cost  her  so  little,  seemed  so  sweet  and  natural. 

"  Then  you  and  I  will  defy  the  world  !  "  he  replied. 

They  paused  to  rest  for  a  moment,  leaning  against  the 
wall.  An  elderly  man  came  up,  shook  hands  with  her, 
and  opened  a  desultory  conversation  with  Thornton. 
Clytie  looked  amusedly  at  the  animated  scene,  tabulat- 
ing mentally,  by  force  of  habit,  the  types  that  passed 
and  repassed  before  her.  Seldom  had  it  struck  her 
before  so  forcibly  how  few  of  her  fellow-creatures  pos- 
sessed the  secret  of  the  joy  of  life.  How  many  of 
the  couples  circling  round,  backing,  glissading  in  that 
dizzying  mass  of  motion  were  really  gladdened  by  what 
they  were  doing  ?  Stout  men  puffed  around  with  a 
serious  air  of  responsibility.  Tall  men,  with  drooping 
moustaches,  paced  languidly  in  time,  scarcely  heeding 
their  partners,  who  expressionlessly  suffered  themselves 
to  be  guided  hither  and  thither  through  the  throng.  The 
robust  youth  of  either  sex  seemed  to  look  upon  dancing 
as  an  athletic  exercise,  and  waltzed  with  the  intent  fer- 
vour of  tennis  players  on  their  mettle  before  a  big  gal- 
lery. Only  here  and  there  did  a  girl,  safe  in  the  arms 
of  a  good  dancer,  half  close  her  eyes  and  surrender  her- 
self to  the  sensuous  charm  of  motion  in  perfect  time  with 
the  throbs  of  music.  Mankind  is  astonishingly  ignorant 
of  the  essential  qualities  of  many  of  its  habitual  pleas- 
ures. So  thought  Clytie,  in  the  thrill  of  her  new  know- 
ledge. The  orchestra  began  the  opening  bars  of  the 
coda.  Thornton  turned  away  from  the  elderly  gentle- 
man, and  putting  his  arm  round  Clytie's  waist  led  her 
away,  without  a  word,  to  finish  the  waltz. 

"  How  delightful  it  is  to  dance  with  someone  who  is 
not  bored  by  it  !  "  she  said,  when  the  music  stopped  and 
they  were  pushing  their  way  through  the  crowd  towards 
the  door. 

He  laughed  in  his  boyish  way,  throwing  back  his  head. 

"  I  had  better  not  answer  that  remark,"  he  replied. 

"Why?" 

She  looked  askance  at  him  as  she  asked,  just  as  any 
little  peasant  girl  would  have  done.  Certain  conditions 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  151 

bring  all  humanity  to  one  level.  He  pressed  the  hand 
that  was  on  his  arm  lightly  against  his  side. 

"  Let  us  get  away  by  ourselves,  and  I  will  tell  you," 
he  said. 

But  this  opportunity  did  not  occur.  Thornton  was 
captured  by  his  hostess  for  introducing  purposes,  Clytie 
waylaid  by  brother  artists  for  dances.  When  Thornton 
and  herself  were  able  to  find  seats  the  music  struck  up 
the  prelude  of  the  next  waltz,  and  Clytie  was  discovered 
and  led  off  by  her  partner.  Only  three  men,  exclusive 
of  Thornton,  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  places 
on  her  programme. 

The  hours  passed  away  swiftly.  She  forgot  her  life, 
her  responsibilities,  her  needs.  During  the  three  dances 
with  the  fortunate — which  were  early  in  the  evening — 
she  flashed  with  wit  and  merriment,  her  partners  thinking 
with  masculine  self-esteem  that  they  were  the  fine  steel 
that  had  caused  these  scintillations.  But  more  than  one 
woman  there  that  night  observed  how  Clytie's  eyes 
ever  and  anon  caught  those  of  Thornton,  who  was 
standing  by  the  doorway.  When  the  two  danced 
together,  men  watched  them  curiously. 

"  If  the  principle  of  natural  selection  could  always  be 
carried  out  like  that  ! "  said  French,  the  journalist,  to 
Redgrave. 

"  Physically,  yes  ;  but " 

"  But  what  ?  If  the  human  race  sprang  exclusively 
from  such  parents,  what  a  glorious  race  it  would  be  !  " 

"  It  might  be  a  very  good  thing  for  the  race,"  replied 
Redgrave  drily  ;  "  but  I  was  thinking  of  the  parents — 
at  least  of  one  of  them." 

"  Nonsense !  a  marriage  like  that  would  be  ideal," 
said  French. 

Redgrave  shook  his  head. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  he  said,  with  some  earnestness.  "  I 
know  a  little  of  Clytie  Davenant.  I  may  claim  to 
have  discovered  her.  She  has  the  blood  of  life  in  her, 
it  is  true — but  she  has  the  finer  artistic  temperament  as 
well.  Mark  my  words,  French  ;  if  she  marries  that  man 
she  will  lose  her  art  clean — clean  ;  and  not  another 
4  Jack  '  will  she  ever  be  able  to  paint.  Many  of  us  men 
artists  are  ruined  by  marriage.  A  woman  artist,  to 


152  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

whom  it  means  fifty  times  more,  runs  fifty  times  more 
risk." 

"  Well,  perhaps  we  are  a  bit  previous,"  said  French 
laughing,  and  turned  the  conversation. 

Later  in  the  evening  Thornton  and  Clytie  came  out  of 
the  dancing-room.  She  was  flushed,  dazed  with  the 
music,  the  noise,  the  electric  light  and  the  heavy  scent 
of  cut  flowers ;  confused,  too,  by  Thornton's  presence, 
by  the  after-pressure  of  his  arm  around  her  waist,  over- 
wrought a  little  by  his  personal  magnetism. 

They  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd  that  lined 
the  passage  and  the  stairs,  went  through  the  brilliantly 
lit  studio  with  its  polished  oak  floor  and  wealth  of  hang- 
ings and  costly  decoration,  into  the  models' dressing-room 
beyond,  that  had  been  turned  into  a  small  boudoir  for 
the  occasion.  Many  couples  were  wandering  about  the 
studio,  examining  the  pictures  and  the  china,  but  the 
dressing-room  had  escaped  notice. 

"  This  is  soothing  after  the  glare,"  said  Clytie,  sitting 
down  restfully  on  a  divan. 

Great  palms  screened  the  door,  the  room  was  hung 
with  dark,  heavy  drapery,  and  between  them  shaded 
electric  lamps  shed  a  subdued  light.  Thornton  sat 
down  by  her  side.  After  a  while  the  steps  and  talking 
in  the  adjacent  studio  ceased,  and  there  rose  from  below 
the  faint  strains  of  the  music  and  the  dull  rhythmic  thud 
of  the  dancers. 

"  What  were  we  talking  about  ?  I  forget,"  said 
Clytie,  after  a  short  silence,  and  then,  meeting  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  her,  she  turned  away  her  head  : 

"  Don't !  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  murmured  involuntarily. 

Then  he  caught  her  hand  :  "  Clytie,  you  are  adorable, 
glorious,  bewitching  !  "  he  cried,  and  kissed  her  quickly, 
twice,  on  the  corner  of  her  lips.  She  snatched  her  hand 
away  and  started  to  her  feet,  pale  and  trembling,  her 
eyes  blazing. 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  You  have  no  right  to  do 
that !  " 

He  rose,  went  to  her,  caught  her  wrists  again — but 
this  time  she  was  powerless  to  withdraw  them,  and  he 
spoke  in  a  quick,  deep  voice  : 

"  I  have  the  right  to  kiss  you — to  kiss  you  and  kiss 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  153 

you  till  the  world's  end — for  I  love  you — and  I  would 
sacrifice  all  I  have  got — my  life  itself,  for  one  kiss  from 
you — I  loved  you,  wanted  you,  from  the  first  time  I  saw 
you — when  the  suddenly  lit  light  revealed  your  beauty 
to  me,  and  you  sprang  glorious,  bewildering  out  of  the 
darkness." 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go  !  "  she  murmured,  faintly  strug- 
gling. 

"  Not  until  you  tell  me  that  I  have  the  right  to  kiss 
you — I  know  you  will  give  it,  you  must !  Clytie,  I  am 
stronger  than  most  men,  and  my  love  is  stronger  than 
most  men's  and  will  not  be  denied — I  will  make  you, 
force  you  to  love  me  as  passionately  as  I  love  you. 
Look  at  me.  Speak  !  say  just  a  word  !  " 

She  flashed  a  swift,  sidelong  glance  at  him,  and  met 
his  eyes  with  the  light  burning  in  their  dark  depths. 
His  passion  intoxicated  her. 

"  You  know,"  she  murmured.  The  words  came 
almost  without  volition. 

He  released  her  hands.  She  remained  standing  for 
a  moment,  motionless  with  downcast  eyes.  Then  she 
lifted  them  once  more  shyly,  met  his,  and  uttered  a  short 
gasping  cry  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her 
passionately. 

"  You  will  be  my  wife,  and  let  our  whole  lives  be  one 
long  kiss  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  below  her  breath. 

A  little  later  Thornton  put  her  into  a  cab,  and  she 
drove  home.  The  cold  night  air  invigorated  her  relaxed 
body,  but  seemed  to  benumb  her  mind.  She  could  not 
think — only  feel  Thornton's  kisses  upon  her.  The  rest 
of  the  subjective  and  objective  universe  was  a  blank. 
Only  when  the  cab  stopped  and  the  driver  asked  the 
number  of  her  house  through  the  trap-door  in  the  roof, 
was  she  conscious  of  external  things.  Then  she  found 
that  he  had  driven  a  long  way  past  the  familiar  door. 
As  he  turned  round  grumblingly,  she  was  aware  of  being 
chilled  through  from  her  drive  across  London,  and  longed 
to  get  indoors. 

It  was  not  until  she  told  Winifred  the  next  morning 
that  she  realised  the  great  change  that  had  come  over 
her  life. 


154  AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Hammerdyke." 

The  commonplace  statement,  thus  uttered  for  the  first 
time,  seemed  like  a  cold  decree  of  fate,  inevitable,  irre- 
sistible. Winifred  cried  a  little  at  the  thought  of  losing 
her. 

"  But  you  will  be  happy,  my  darling,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears.  "  He  is  so  brave  and  strong  and 
handsome,  and  he  must  love  you  better  than  his  life." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Clytie,  gently  stroking  her  friend's 
brown  hair  (Winifred  was  sitting  at  her  feet)  and  look- 
ing tenderly  at  her  pure,  upturned  face.  But  her  own, 
bent  down,  was  aflame  with  reminiscence. 

"  When  is  it  to  be  ?  Not  for  a  long,  long  time,  I  hope," 
said  Winifred. 

"  Almost  immediately — he  wants  it — there  is  no  par- 
ticular reason  for  waiting." 

"I  felt  it  was  coming  some  day,"  said  Winifred  ;  "  but 
I  did  not  expect  it  so  soon." 

"  It  is  best,"  said  Clytie — "  best  that  it  should  be  at 
once ;  the  interval  between  the  old  life  and  the  new 
would  be  too  trying  if  it  were  drawn  out." 

"  You  always  do  what  is  best,  dear,"  whispered  Wini- 
fred in  her  trustful  way.  "  Oh  !  you  must  be  happy, 
very,  very  happy,  Clytie  dear." 

Clytie  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  caressing  her  friend's 
cheek  with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  looked  around  the 
studio.  It  came  almost  as  a  shock  to  her  to  realise  that 
in  a  short,  short  time  she  would  have  to  bid  farewell  to 
all  that  had  grown  up  around  her  artistic  life.  The 
grotesque  caricatures  on  the  walls  stared  at  her  like  mean- 
ingless shadows.  Her  palette,  brushes,  and  parapher- 
nalia of  rags  and  turpentine  bottles  lay  strewn  about  like 
the  properties  of  a  forgotten  comedy.  The  unfinished 
pictures  on  easels  and  stands  lost  their  fascination. 
Only  Winifred's  little  study  on  the  other  side  of  the  studio 
seemed  unchanged — retaining  its  virginal  freshness  and 
purity.  But  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  landing  outside, 
buoyant,  elastic,  dispelled  all  wistful  regrets.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet  as  Winifred  rose,  and  listened,  transformed 
into  a  radiant  woman,  with  quivering  depths  in  her  dark 
blue  eyes,  her  red  lips  parted  in  a  half  smile,  her  chin 
raised  showing  the  full  neck. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  155 

A  moment  or  two  afterwards  Mrs.  Gurkins  appeared 
at  the  studio  door. 

"  Mr.  Hammerdyke,  miss.  I  have  shown  him  into  the 
sitting-room,"  she  said,  and  then  retired. 

"  I  knew  it  was  he,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Go,  dear,"  said  Winifred,  putting  her  arm  round 
Clytie's  waist  and  moving  with  her  across  the  studio  to 
the  door. 

Clytie  kissed  her  laughingly  and  disappeared.  But 
two  tears  rolled  down  Winifred's  cheek  as  she  went  back 
to  the  chair  by  the  stove ;  and  then  she  flung  herself 
down  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and  burying  her  face 
in  her  arm,  began  to  cry  bitterly. 

"I  don't  like  him,  I  don't  like  him  ;  he  will  spoil  my 
darling,"  she  moaned. 

Sometimes  knowledge  is  given  to  those  who  seek  after 
it  least. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  unexpected  always  happens,  often  inopportunely. 
Winifred  had  risen  from  the  ground  by  the  stove  and 
was  standing  miserably  before  her  easel  when  a  knock 
was  heard  at  the  studio  door.  She  cried,  "  Come  in  !  " 
and  Kent  entered.  He  was  looking  rather  pale  and 
worn  out,  his  beard  sinking  ever  so  little  into  his  cheeks  ; 
his  eyes  were  tired.  On  seeing  him  Winifred  could 
not  restrain  a  start  of  surprise. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Kent !  you  here  at  this  hour  of  the  day  !  " 

"Yes;  I  have  just  come  back  from  the  Museum.  I 
went  up  to  tell  them  I  wasn't  coming,  as  they  say  in 
Ireland.  The  fact  is  I  am  feeling  lazy  and  want  a  few 
days'  slackness." 

"You  have  been  overworking  yourself,  that's  what 
you  have  been  doing,"  said  Winifred  with  kind  severity. 
"  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  stove  and  rest  yourself. 
You  want  someone  to  look  after  you." 

She  pulled  the  chair  that  Clytie  had  been  occupying  a 
little  forward,  by  way  of  invitation. 

"What  a  good  little  creature  you  are,  Winifred,"  he 
said  as  he  sat  down.  "  You  always  think  of  other 
people.  Men  don't  seem  able  to  do  it ;  they  are  too 
much  wrapped  up  in  themselves.  How  are  you  all — 
you  and  the  children  ?  You  must  make  them  invite  me 
to  tea  soon.  I  have  not  seen  them  for  ages." 

"  Oh,  they  are  quite  well  again,"  replied  Winifred, 
brightening,  "  and  they  have  been  clamouring  for  Kent, 
as  they  call  you.  I'll  tell  them  to  send  you  an  '  At  Home ' 
card.  And  it  must  be  soon,  for  you  are  going  abroad. 
When  do  you  think  of  starting  ?  " 

Kent  sighed  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  yet ;  I  wanted  to  see  Clytie  first. 
Where  is  she  ? " 

"  She  has  a  visitor — in  her  sitting-room,"  replied 
Winifred  somewhat  shortly. 

156 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  157 

But  Kent  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own  affairs  to  notice 
the  change  of  tone. 

"  Will  she  be  engaged  long  ? " 

"  Probably." 

"I  wanted  so  much  to  see  her." 

Winifred  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  came 
and  put  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  seem  so  unhappy.  Is  it  about  Clytie  ?  You 
and  she  have  quarrelled  or  had  some  difference, — she 
has  not  told  me  what  it  is, — and  I  have  been  so  grieved. 
If  I  knew,  perhaps  I  might  bring  things  straight." 

"Would  you,  Winifred  ?"  said  Kent  eagerly. 

"  Of  course.  Don't  I  love  Clytie  better  than  anybody 
else — and  haven't  you  been  a  good  kind  friend  to  me  ? 
I  haven't  asked  her — nor  you — why  you  have  stopped 
being  friends,  because  one  shrinks  from  asking  such 
questions,  but  I  have  seen  it,  and  I  have  been  so,  so 
sorry." 

The  gentle  sympathy  touched  him.  The  realisation 
of  the  feminine  had  come  to  him  of  late  powerfully 
enough  to  have  overset  his  old  one-sided  theories.  He 
knew  the  value  now  of  a  tender  word  from  a  woman, 
and  his  nature  hungered  for  it. 

"Winifred,"  he  said,  half  turning  in  the  chair  and 
looking  up  at  her  in  his  honest  way,  "  do  you  think 
Clytie  could  ever  care  for  me — not  as  a  friend — as  some- 
thing nearer  ? " 

Winifred  fell  back,  looked  at  him  aghast,  unable  to 
speak,  as  the  light  dawned  upon  her.  He  mistook  her 
movement,  rose,  and  began  to  speak  hurriedly,  pacing 
the  room. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it — how  could  I  help  it  ?  I  have 
struggled  against  it  with  all  my  might.  I  know  I  am  a 
fool  to  think  that  she  can  love  me,  and  you  are  surprised 
and  dismayed,  as  she  was  when  she  saw  that  I  loved 
her.  I  would  have  bit  my  tongue  out  then  rather  than  tell 
her,  but  I  saw  she  guessed — and  that  is  why  our  friendship 
has  been  broken.  I  have  kept  away  from  her  to  spare 
her  the  pain  of  it.  But  it  has  nearly  driven  me  mad.  I 
can't  go  abroad  with  the  weight  of  it  upon  me.  I  must 
see  her  and  let  her  know  everything.  Tell  me,  Winifred, 
you  who  are  so  fine  and  delicate,  I  did  not  wrong  her 


158  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

and  our  friendship  by  growing  to  love  her  better  than 
anything  life  has.  She  won't  think  me  unworthy  of  the 
trust  she  gave  me,  and  despise  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ! "  said  Winifred  half  chokingly. 
"  Your  love  would  honour  any  girl.  Oh,  why  did  you 
not  tell  her  and  plead  with  her  before  ?  " 

"  Then  do  you  think,  Winifred "  began  Kent  with 

a  sudden  joy  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  cried  the  girl,  interrupting  him  ;  "  I 
can't  bear  it.  It  is  too  late !  I  hate  to  stab  you  like 
this,  but  you  must  know  it.  Clyde  is  engaged  to  be 
married." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  neither  looked 
at  the  other.  Kent  was  stunned,  dazed.  He  had  come 
prepared  for  a  refusal,  but  not  for  such  an  absolute 
shattering  of  all  his  hopes.  He  grew  very  white  and 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  as  if  steady- 
ing himself. 

"  How  long  has  she "  he  said,  at  length,  huskily. 

"Only  last  night.     She  told  me  of  it  this  morning." 

"  And  the  man?  " 

"  Mr.  Hammerdyke — Mrs.  Farquharson's  cousin." 

She  went  up  to  him,  took  his  hand,  and  turned  her 
pure  face  up  to  his,  the  tears  standing  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  won't  say  you  will  find  someone  more  worthy  of 
you,  because  you  couldn't." 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  tie  her  shoe-strings.  I  know  that 
very  well,"  said  poor  Kent. 

"  Oh,  that  is  foolish,"  she  said,  with  a  wan  smile.  "  But 
there  isn't  another  girl  like  Clytie  in  the  world  ;  and 
you  will  always  think  kindly  of  her,  and  help  her  if  she 
wants  help,  won't  you  ?  You  won't  turn  from  her  and 
hate  her,  as  I  have  heard  men  often  do  —  for  I  don't 
think  you  are  like  such  men." 

"  I  would  give  up  everything  I  had  in  life  to  save  her 
one  hour's  pain,"  said  Kent.  "  I  have  been  a  fool, — I 
see  it  now, — oh  !  not  in  having  loved  her — not  that.  It 
is  a  blessed  privilege  —  I  can't  explain,  for  you  would 
not  understand.  I  shall  always  love  her,  Winifred ;  no 
other  woman  can  be  to  me  what  Clytie  has  been — and 
might  have  been.  I  shall  leave  by  the  early  boat  to- 
morrow morning,  so  you  will  not  see  me  for  three  or 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  159 

four  months.  When  I  return — perhaps  you'll  let  me 
come  and  talk  to  you  a  little  sometimes." 

"  Oh,  it  will  comfort  me,"  said  Winifred,  "  for  am  I 
not  losing  her  too  ?  " 

He  bade  her  good-bye,  exacting  before  he  left  a 
promise  that  she  would  not  let  Clytie  know  of  what  had 
passed  between  them. 

He  went  downstairs,  anxious  to  escape  from  the 
house,  to  get  into  the  open  air.  In  the  entrance  passage 
the  side  door  leading  into  the  shop  was  open  and  Mrs. 
Gurkins  was  standing  by  the  threshold.  Kent  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  acquaint  her  with  the  fact  of  his  sudden 
departure  next  day.  He  would  keep  on  the  rooms, 
which  must  be  scrupulously  locked  up  during  his 
absence.  Since  his  first  intimacy  with  Clytie  he  had  im- 
perceptibly grown  more  amenable  to  feminine  interfer- 
ence in  his  domestic  arrangements,  and  Mrs.  Gurkins  no 
longer  had  her  former  terror  of  invading  his  domain. 
But  she  was  still  in  enough  awe  of  him  to  promise  faith- 
fully to  execute  his  desires.  To  talk  on  these  trivial 
matters  was  a  relief  from  the  terrible  strain  of  the  last 
few  moments,  although  he  wondered  a  little  how  he 
could  lend  them  coherent  attention.  He  was  listening 
with  waning  interest  to  some  final  irrelevancies  on  the 
part  of  his  landlady  when  a  man  ran  down  the  stairs  and 
strode  quickly  past  him  in  the  passage.  A  glance  was 
sufficient  to  tell  Kent  who  Clytie's  visitor  was — it  had 
not  occurred  to  him  before  to  conjecture.  His  heart 
sank  as  he  realised  the  splendid  physique  and  proud, 
masterful  bearing  of  his  rival.  Ordinarily  the  least  ob- 
servant of  men  in  such  matters,  Kent  noted  the  careless 
ease  with  which  he  wore  his  faultless  attire.  The  patent- 
leather  boots,  the  new  silk  hat,  the  well-cut  frock-coat 
with  an  orchid  in  the  buttonhole,  the  new  gray  Suede 
gloves  grasped  along  with  a  gold-mounted  malacca — all 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  man  naturally,  to  be  the  world's 
fit  adjuncts  to  the  gifts  of  nature.  Smiling  to  himself 
and  humming  a  song,  he  seemed  the  personification  of 
the  joy  and  strength,  the  success  and  luxury  of  life. 

"  I  am  not  that  man's  match,"  thought  Kent  bitterly, 
thus  falling,  as  all  men  must  do  at  times,  a  little  below 
himself. 


160  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

The  front  door  slammed  behind  Hammerdyke.  Kent 
waited  for  a  moment,  gave  a  few  vague  general  direc- 
tions, and  then  went  out  into  the  street.  He  felt  stronger 
now  that  he  had  to  struggle  against  real  and  tangible 
trouble  instead  of  the  intangible  doubts  and  fears  that 
had  set  him  off  his  balance.  The  single-hearted  loyalty 
of  his  nature,  that  had  caused  him  to  regard  his  love  for 
Clytie  as  treason  against  her  unsuspecting  friendship, 
and  had  thus  placed  him  in  the  weakness  of  a  false  posi- 
tion, now  gave  him  strength  to  face  fearlessly  life  and  its 
responsibilities.  But  time  alone  could  assuage  the  pain 
and  bitterness  of  it  all.  He  strung  himself  together  and 
walked  briskly  through  the  bright,  frosty  air  towards  the 
home  of  his  mother  and  sister  in  Netting  Hill.  There 
was  sincere  affection  between  mother  and  son,  sister  and 
brother  ;  but  neither  of  the  quiet,  contented  women  knew 
much  of  his  life  or  sympathised  with  his  ambitions.  Mrs. 
Kent's  hopeless  wish  was  that  he  would  marry  some  good, 
sensible  girl  who  would  keep  his  house  tidy,  provide  him 
with  decent  meals,  and  bring  bright  children's  faces 
around  his  knee.  This  conception  bounded  her  horizon 
of  a  man's  happiness  ;  as  she  knew  that  her  son  would 
never  appear  within  it,  she  regarded  him  with  wistful, 
unhelpful  affection.  Agatha,  with  the  younger  genera- 
tion's superior  grasp  of  things,  looked  upon  him  as  a 
soft-hearted  eccentric  who  deserved  to  be  humoured. 
For  many  years,  therefore,  Kent  had  ceased  to  share  with 
them  any  of  his  inner  life,  not  because  he  loved  them 
less  than  during  his  boyhood,  but  because  their  mental 
attitudes  precluded  confidence.  They  were  women,  they 
could  not  understand.  When  he  entered  the  house  he 
left  his  own  interests  outside  and  plunged,  in  his  rough, 
hearty  way,  into  theirs.  He  gave  his  whole  attention  to 
accounts  of  Cousin  Henrietta's  baby,  Uncle  William's 
gout,  the  leakages  of  the  cistern,  and  the  turpitudes  of 
the  cook.  In  matters  such  as  the  cistern  he  gave  practi- 
cal help  ;  in  others,  such  as  the  baby,  he  overflowed  with 
sympathetic  though  alarming  suggestions.  His  own  life 
was  seldom  touched  upon.  With  finer  natures — Clytie, 
Winifred,  Wither — that  divined  the  strong  purpose  un- 
derlying his  eccentricities,  and  met  him  halfway  with 
their  sympathy,  he  was  generous  in  his  confidence  ;  but 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  161 

to  others,  proud,  shy,  and  reserved.  So  Mrs.  Kent  and 
Agatha  knew  nothing  of  Clytie,  little  of  his  scientific 
work,  and  only  vaguely  of  his  duties  at  the  Museum. 

He  walked  up  Sloane  Street  and  through  the  park, 
thinking  of  his  great  loss,  trying  to  scheme  out  his 
future,  in  which  Clytie  would  only  be  a  memory.  When 
he  arrived  at  his  mother's  house  he  paused  for  a  moment, 
as  if  literally  to  unstrap  the  burden  of  care  from  his 
shoulders  and  leave  it  outside  the  front  door.  Then  he 
entered  and  greeted  his  mother  and  sister  in  his  bluff, 
cheery  way.  He  remained  with  them  a  couple  of  hours, 
during  which  he  performed  a  few  odd  jobs  about  the 
house  which  he  had  promised  to  attend  to,  and  then 
took  his  leave.  Mrs.  Kent  was  solicitous  as  to  his  health, 
besought  him  not  to  work  too  hard  nor  to  come  back 
with  a  German  wife.  She  could  not  quite  see  the  reason 
of  his  sudden  departure.  Why  the  country  should 
waste  its  money  in  sending  him  abroad  to  study  old 
coins  she,  in  her  placid  utilitarianism,  could  not  imagine. 
However,  she  bade  him  a  motherly  farewell,  hoped  from 
her  heart  that  he  would  have  a  pleasant  holiday,  although 
she  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  a  regret  that  he 
would  not  return  in  time  to  superintend  the  spring- 
cleaning. 

When  the  door  closed  behind  him  he  picked  up  his 
burden  and  walked  doggedly  away  with  it,  mechanically, 
not  heeding  his  direction.  He  suddenly  found  that  he 
had  come,  contrary  to  his  intention,  diagonally  across  the 
park  to  Hyde  Park  Corner.  It  was  past  five  o'clock. 
Wither  would  be  in  his  club.  He  would  go  and  say 
good-bye,  for  Wither  was  very  dear  to  him. 

The  little  man  was  giving  some  directions  to  the  hall 
porter  when  Kent  appeared. 

"  My  dear,  good  creature  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing  to  yourself  ?  You  are  as  white  as  a  ghost. 
You  want  some  whiskey  or  brandy,  probably  both.  Come 
down  to  the  smoking-room  and  have  some." 

"  I  am  a  bit  overdone,"  replied  Kent,  "  and  perhaps  I 
have  been  walking  too  much  to-day.  But  I  don't  want 
any  brandy." 

"  Oh,  but  you've  got  to,"  said  Wither,  and  entering  the 
smoking-room,  he  gave  the  order  to  a  waiter. 


162  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,  Teddy,"  said  Kent  as 
soon  as  they  were  seated  in  a  quiet  corner.  "  I  am  off 
to-morrow  morning." 

"  The  deuce  you  are  !  Well,  so  much  the  better.  A 
sound  friend  abroad  is  more  comfortable  for  all  parties 
than  a  sick  friend  at  home.  Have  they  given  you  your 
three  months  ? " 

"  Yes — on  full  pay." 

"  Lucky  dog.  And  while  you  are  flirting  around  the 
capitals  of  Europe  we  poor  devils  will  have  to  be  slaving 
away  in  this  grimy  and  sooty  metropolis.  In  the  good 
fortune  of  one's  friends  there  is  always  something 
devilishly  obnoxious.  Why  is  the  eternal  order  of  things 
so  mismanaged  that  you  should  have  a  good  time  and  I 
not?  Here  is  your  brandy.  Drink  it  and  look  more 
human." 

Kent  did  as  he  was  bidden.  The  stimulant,  which  he 
needed,  revived  him.  Wither  guessed  that  something 
untoward  had  occurred.  He  had  a  woman's  intuition, 
this  bright-eyed,  cynical  little  being,  and  he  rattled  on 
in  his  light  way  to  save  Kent  the  strain  of  making 
conversation. 

"  Have  a  cigarette  ? "  he  asked,  taking  out  his  case. 
"  No  ?  Well,  smoke  your  pipe.  I  can't  understand  how 
anyone  but  a  horny-palated  son  of  toil  can  smoke  a 
pipe.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  a  girl  sent  me  by 
way  of  a  present  this  morning?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Kent.     "  A  hymn  book  ?  " 

"  No  ;  a  cigarette  holder — mouthpiece,  you  know.  I 
wrote  and  told  her  it  was  very  pretty  and  I  would  keep 
it  in  memory  of  her  to  my  dying  day  ;  but  as  for  using 
it,  I  should  just  as  soon  think  of  kissing  her  through  a 
respirator." 

"  That  was  unkind,"  said  Kent,  laughing  in  spite  of 
himself,  tickled  at  the  idea. 

"  Lord  bless  you,  no,"  replied  Wither  oracularly  from 
the  depths  of  his  armchair.  "  It  is  wholesome  to  check 
this  frenzy  of  profusion  now  and  then.  When  a  woman 
once  begins  to  give  she  never  knows  where  to  stop. 
When  she  has  exhausted  her  imagination  she  gives  away 
herself.  It's  embarrassing  sometimes,  for  one  can't  put 
half  a  dozen  women  away  in  a  drawer  with  the  rest  of 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  163 

the  odds  and  ends.  Oh,  no  ;  a  little  fatherly  repression 
does  a  world  of  good  to  the  ingenuous  and  enthusiastic. 
I  don't  pretend  to  be  moral,  but  I  am  not  without  kindly 
instincts." 

He  chuckled  sardonically  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
pages  of  Punch.  Kent  smoked  on  in  silence,  cheered  a 
little  by  the  familiar  chatter. 

"  Teddy,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  seem  to  hear  all  the 
gossip  about  town  ;  do  you  know  anything  about  a  man 
called  Hammerdyke;' " 

"  Thornton  Hammerdyke  —  man  from  Africa  — 
explorer  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes,  rather.  One  of  the  greatest  devils  unhung," 
replied  Wither  cheerfully. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  cried  Kent  in  an  agitated 
voice,  starting  forward  and  gripping  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  "  Take  care  what  you  are  saying.  It  is  a  matter 
of  life  and  death  to — to  somebody.  What  do  you  know 
about  him  ?  Tell  me." 

Wither  arched  his  eyebrows  in  surprise,  and  became 
serious.  Then  his  quick  intuition  supplied  him  with  the 
reason  for  Kent's  agitation. 

"  I  only  spoke  idle  gossip,"  he  said,  "  and  I  have  the 
misfortune  to  be  hyperbolical  at  times.  The  man  has 
had  some  dealings  with  our  office  and  that  is  how  I 
come  to  know  anything  about  him.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber he  got  into  a  row  for  wholesale  slaughter  of  niggers 
on  one  of  his  expeditions  ?  He  cleared  himself  all  right, 
of  course,  by  proving  mutiny,  self-defence,  and  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  I  remember  the  incident  now,"  said  Kent.  "  It  was 
in  the  papers." 

"  Well,  his  public  character  is  cleared,"  said  Wither, 
"and  he  is  a  good  deal  of  a  lion  these  days  ;  but  fellows 
who  have  served  with  him  take  the  niggers'  side  of  the 
question,  and  wonder  how  he  remained  a  day  among 
them  without  being  torn  to  pieces.  That's  all  I  know 
about  him,  which  you  see  is  not  much.  My  dear  old 
boy,"  he  continued  earnestly  as  Kent  sat  silent,  staring 
in  front  of  him,  "  is  that  the  reason  why  you  are  start- 
ing so  suddenly  ?  Is  it  all  fixed  up  ?  No  chance  ? " 


1 64  AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

Kent  nodded  moodily. 

"  I  suppose  not.  I  was  going  to  ask  her  this  morning 
when  I  learned  she  had  engaged  herself — only  last  night 
— to  this  man.  And  I  have  seen  him.  Devil  or  not,  he 
is  a  man." 

Wither  bit  his  lip.  For  the  moment  he  was  at  a  loss 
for  an  expression  of  sympathy,  somewhat  uneasy  as  to 
the  line  he  should  adopt.  What  was  the  use  of  making 
Kent  more  miserable  by  telling  him  other  ugly  stories 
he  had  heard  concerning  Hammerdyke  if  either  were 
powerless  to  prevent  the  marriage  from  taking  place  ? 
Besides,  it  was  only  idle  gossip  after  all,  and  in  the 
serious  affairs  of  life  Wither  was  honourable  and  con- 
scientious. 

Suddenly  Kent  broke  out : 

"  Oh,  my  God,  Teddy,  I  don't  care  a  little  damn  about 
myself, — I  can  worry  along,  as  I  did  before — better,  for 
it  is  something  to  have  loved  her, — if  only  she  is  happy. 
But  if  this  man  is  not  fit  for  her,  if  this  horrible  gossip 
of  yours  is  true,  she  will  be  entering  into  a  life  of  misery, 
— I  know  her, — and  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  had  not  put  out 
my  hand  to  stop  her." 

"  Everyone  must  dree  his  own  weird,  my  dear  old 
boy,"  said  Wither.  "  And  while  he's  doing  it  neither  you 
nor  anyone  else  can  interfere  with  much  profit.  Make 
your  mind  easy  about  yourself  and  your  responsibilities. 
You  could  not  go  to  her  and  say,  '  I  hear  the  man  you 
are  going  to  marry  is  a  blackguard  ;  have  me  instead.' 
In  the  first  place,  your  pride  would  not  allow  you,  and 
in  the  second,  if  she  cared  about  him,  she  wouldn't 
believe  you,  but  would  marry  him  all  the  sooner  to 
prove  her  faith  in  him.  It  is  the  way  of  women  when 
they  are  worth  anything." 

"  Yes ;  Clyde  would  do  just  that,"  said  Kent.  "  I 
think  even  a  man  would,  if  he  loved  a  woman." 

"  Well,"  said  Wither,  "  it  is  no  use  making  yourself 
miserable  about  it.  The  wise  man  guards  against 
indulgence  in  things  that  upset  his  moral  as  well  as  his 
physical  digestion.  But  wisdom  was  never  much  your 
forte,  friend  John." 

Kent  stayed  and  dined  with  Wither  and  then  returned 
alone  to  the  King's  Road.  He  had  already  made  cer- 


AT  THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  165 

tain  preparations  for  travel ;  the  few  final  arrangements 
did  not  take  long.  As  he  passed  by  Clytie's  sitting- 
room  door  he  noticed  that  it  was  ajar,  a  sign  that  she 
was  out.  In  the  old  days, — less  than  two  months  ago, 
but  far  away  for  all  that, — he  had  been  accustomed  to 
run  down  on  such  occasions,  at  about  half- past  ten  or 
eleven,  and  stir  up  the  fire.  Since  her  return  from 
Durdleham  this  little  token  of  intimacy  had  gone  with  the 
rest.  But  on  this  evening  the  desire  came  over  him  to 
perform  this  service  for  her  once  more,  for  the  last 
time.  He  crept  down  the  stairs  on  tip-toe,  in  case  she 
should  have  come  in  without  his  knowledge.  But  the 
door  was  still  ajar,  the  room  was  vacant.  The  fire  had 
burned  down  very  low,  only  a  few  glowing  coals  at  the 
bottom  of  the  grate.  He  returned  to  his  own  rooms  and 
fetched  some  wood  and  paper,  and  kneeling  down,  built 
up  a  satisfactory  fire.  At  first,  however,  the  wood  would 
not  burn  ;  it  had  to  be  dried  by  repeated  conflagrations 
of  paper,  and  the  blaze  had  to  be  induced  by  much  cun- 
ning coaxing.  It  was  just  beginning  to  flare  merrily  up 
the  chimney  when  the  sudden  slam  of  the  street  door 
below  aroused  him  to  a  sense  of  his  position.  He  left 
the  room  and  fled  quickly  up  the  stairs.  Outside  his 
door  he  listened.  It  was  Clytie,  arriving  home  some- 
what early.  He  was  disappointed,  a  little  humiliated. 
The  freshness  had  gone  from  his  sad  little  pleasure,  for 
he  had  not  wished  her  to  guess  that  he  had  been  down. 
Now  the  act  seemed  clumsy,  in  bad  taste,  as  if  he  had 
been  forcing  his  attentions  on  her.  He  went  into  his 
sitting-room  with  a  heart  heavier  than  before,  and  con- 
tinued his  preparations  for  departure.  He  had  packed 
up  his  portmanteau  and  was  now  stowing  away  his 
papers  and  valuable  odds  and  ends  that  he  wished  to 
remain  under  lock  and  key  during  his  absence. 

Suddenly  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stair  that  made  his 
heart  stand  still,  and  Clytie  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Can  I  come  in?  " 

He  could  scarcely  find  words  to  greet  her.  Now  that 
their  good  comradeship  was  at  an  end,  above  all,  now 
that  she  was  lifted  beyond  his  sphere,  she  held  a  different 
position  in  his  eyes.  She  looked  beautiful,  queenly. 
Her  rich  hair  and  colouring,  the  pale  blue  of  her  dress, 


166  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

struck  a  note  of  exquisite  brightness  in  the  gloomy,  half- 
dismantled  room.  He  removed  some  books  from  his 
writing-chair  and  pulled  it  towards  her. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come !  "  was  all  he  could  say. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  look  after  my  fire  ! "  said 
Clytie. 

"  I  did  not  want  you  to  know " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  a  sentiment,"  he  replied.  "  We  are  governed  a 
great  deal  by  such  things." 

"  It  touched  me  so,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  could  not  help 
coming  up  to  thank  you,  as  you  are  going  away  early  in 
the  morning." 

"  Ah  !     Winifred  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  said  you  had  come  to  bid  good-bye." 

Kent  felt  bound  to  fall  in  with  Winifred's  friendly 
fable,  although  his  honesty  shrank  a  little  from  accept- 
ing what  was  not  its  due. 

"  There  is  always  something  sad  in  leave-taking,"  said 
Clytie. 

The  remark  was  trite  and  commonplace  ;  but  so  is  a 
kiss  or  a  grasp  of  the  hand  or  the  words  "  Good-bye, 
dear,"  themselves.  The  original  generally  brings  more 
titillation  than  comfort. 

"  This  leave-taking  is  sadder  than  most — to  me,"  said 
Kent. 

"  And  to  me  too,"  said  Clytie.  "  It  marks  the  end  of 
the  old  life — a  very  pleasant  one.  Kent,"  she  went  on 
after  a  short  reflective  pause,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing :  I  reproached  you  a  little  in  my  heart — last  month. 
I  don't  now.  I  haven't  the  right.  Winifred  said  she 
had  let  you  know  of  my  engagement.  If  our  parting 
had  not  come  from  you,  it  would  have  come  now  from 
me." 

"  I  see  now  ;  it  was  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later," 
replied  Kent,  much  moved.  "  Oh,  my  God  !  what  pup- 
pets we  are.  But  I  wish  you  happiness,  from  my  heart, 
in  your  new  life.  You  will  always  be  to  me  the  one 
woman  whom  " — he  was  going  to  add,  "  I  could  love," 
but  he  checked  himself  and  quickly  substituted,  "  who 
has  taught  me  what  there  is  in  women." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Kent,"  returned  Clytie  with  a  touch  of 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  167 

her  brightness  and  charm,  "  there  will  be  someone 
nicer  than  I  who  will  teach  you  better.  You,  too,  must 
have  happiness,  you  know.  You  will  marry  soon " 

"  I  marry  !  "  cried  Kent,  wheeling  round  to  face  her. 
"  How  can  you  say  that  !  " 

They  looked  at  one  another,  each  misunderstanding. 
He  was  wounded  at  her  treating  his  love  as  a  thing  of 
no  account.  She  was  puzzled  at  his  implied  contradic- 
tion of  her  theory. 

"  I  thought  I  had  discovered  the  reason  for  your  wish- 
ing to  break  off  our  intimacy — but  I  find  I  was  wrong." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Kent,  agitated.  "  I  acted 
foolishly,  very  foolishly  and  rudely.  Yet  I  only  did  it  to 
save  you  pain.  To  break  with  you  cost  me  the  dearest 
thing  I  had  in  the  world.  Surely  you  must  be  aware  of 
that." 

"  You  did  not  break  it  because  you  suddenly — during 
my  absence — wished  to  form  other  ties  ?  " 

A  light  broke  upon  Kent,  like  a  flash  of  lightning 
over  a  desolate  wilderness.  All  of  this  heart-burning, 
then,  was  for  nothing.  She  had  never  suspected  that  he 
loved  her.  A  sense  of  the  futility  of  things  crushed  him 
for  a  moment. 

"I  am  not  a  man  to  fall  in  love  readily,"  he  replied  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Then,"  said  Clytie  earnestly,  "  I  am  at  fault.  Why 
did  you  not  answer  my  letter  ?  Why  did  you  shun  me  ? 
Why  were  you  so  constrained  when  we  met  ?  Why  did 
you  tear  yourself  out  of  my  daily  life  ?  " 

Kent  turned  away  his  face,  so  that  she  should  not  see 
him  as  he  fought  out  within  himself  a  great  battle.  Had 
these  words  only  been  spoken  a  day  or  two  ago  he 
would  have  poured  out  his  love  to  her  in  all  its  honesty 
and  strength.  But  now  she  was  bound  to  another 
irrevocably — now  indeed  it  would  give  her  pain  to  hear 
what  he  foolishly  thought  would  have  given  her  pain  to 
hear  before.  Then  he  was  restrained  by  misinterpreta- 
tion of  the  meaning  of  the  passion  that  had  come  surg- 
ing into  his  blood.  Now  he  was  held  back  by  finer 
feelings,  ignorant  perhaps,  quixotic,  but  such  as  work  in 
man  to  the  shaping  of  his  nobleness. 

"  It  was  something  I  would  rather  not  speak  of,"  he 


1 68  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

said  at  last — "  something  in  my  own  life.  I  might  have 
told  you  then  ;  I  was  wrong  not  to  ;  I  did  it  for  the 
best.  I  can't  now.  This  seems  like  a  cheap  way  of 
making  mysteries, — perhaps  it  is  one,  not  very  big, — but 
it  is  better  that  it  should  be  one  to  you.  It  was  no  fault 
of  mine,  believe  me.  You  do  believe  me,  Clytie,  when  I 
say  that  it  was  bitter  for  me  to  give  up  your  friendship, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Kent,"  exclaimed  Clytie,  "  I  do  believe  that  you 
are  everything  that  is  true  and  tender  and  loyal.  You 
don't  know  what  strength  and  comfort  your  sympathy 
and  your  brave,  frank  way  of  looking  at  things  have  been 
to  me.  I  have  wronged  you — forgive  me." 

She  rose,  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took  it  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips  very  gently.  Her  eyes  grew  a  little 
moist. 

"  You  are  treating  me  like  a  foolish  woman,  and  not 
en  bon  camarade"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  are  no  longer  my  bon  camarade"  he  replied. 
"  You  are  my  very  dear  lady,  whom  I  will  serve  till  the 
hour  of  my  death." 

A  moment  or  two  afterwards  she  was  gone.  The  next 
morning  Kent  left  England. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A  GREAT  writer  has  remarked,  that  between  the  acting 
of  a  dreadful  thing  and  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim 
is  like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream,  and  that  the 
state  of  man  under  those  circumstances,  like  to  a 
little  kingdom,  suffers  the  nature  of  an  insurrection. 
Although  the  step  that  Clytie  was  about  to  take  was  not 
of  the  character  that  Brutus  contemplated,  it  was  suffi- 
ciently serious  for  the  interval  between  her  engagement 
and  her  marriage  to  be  a  time  of  great  mental  and  moral 
upheaval.  Her  "genius  and  mortal  instruments"  had 
periods  of  fierce  council,  in  which  the  latter  always 
obtained  turbulent  victory.  Dreading  these  inner  con- 
flicts, she  shrank  from  introspection.  When  doubts 
began  to  creep  over  her  she  shook  them  off,  and  sat 
down  and  wrote  letters  to  Thornton  which  she  burned 
an  hour  or  two  afterwards.  But  it  was  only  when  she 
was  alone  in  the  studio  hastily  finishing  the  orders  she 
had  in  hand,  or  during  the  few  lonely  evenings  that  she 
passed  in  her  sitting-room,  that  these  torturing  mis- 
givings arose.  When  Thornton  was  near  she  forgot 
that  any  had  ever  come  to  her.  He  overpowered  her 
will  and  her  senses,  dominated  her  with  a  caressing 
word,  a  touch  of  the  hand,  a  glance  from  the  depths  of 
his  dark  eyes.  In  the  lucid  intervals  between  these 
periods  of  dizzying  surrender  she  did  not  recognise  her- 
self. It  was  almost  as  if  some  Morgan  le  Fay  had  cast 
around  her  a  spell  of  woven  paces,  and  changed  her  into 
she  knew  not  what,  while  she  saw  the  old  Clytie  fading 
like  a  dream-shape  away.  To  women  of  finer  tempera- 
ment marriage  looms  shadowy,  formless,  a  great 
enchanter  that  will  change  all  things,  deliver  into  their 
keeping  the  secrets  of  pain  and  delight.  But  to  Clytie 
it  was  something  less  and  something  more.  Its 
material  responsibilities  were  less  of  a  mystery  to  her 

169 


1 7°  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

than  to  most  girls  of  her  age,  owing  to  the  peculiarities 
of  her  self-training  ;  but  its  spiritual  and  moral  results 
were  hidden  from  her  in  a  cloud,  denser,  more  lurid, 
more  extensive.  She  loved  Hammerdyke,  not  indeed  as 
she  would  have  loved  Kent  had  he  made  one  little  effort 
to  turn  the  wavering  friendship  into  love — for  then 
passion  would  have  been  finely  tempered  with  tender- 
ness, trust,  and  generous  sympathy  ;  but  still  certain 
chords  of  her  nature  vibrated  fully  in  response  to  the 
touch  of  the  man  she  was  about  to  marry.  The  one 
might  have,  as  it  were,  awakened  the  full  organ,  but 
the  single  diapason  that  was  pulled  rang  out  none  the 
less  true. 

During  the  short  period  of  their  engagement  Hammer- 
dyke  was  unceasing  in  tokens  of  his  love.  It  was  the 
nature  of  the  man  to  throw  his  whole  being  into  the 
delight  or  danger  of  the  moment.  Many  a  woman  who 
cares  lukewarmly,  perhaps  reluctantly,  is  fired  with  a 
gratitude  akin  to  love  by  unending,  passionate  devotion. 
All  the  more  responsive  is  the  woman  of  full  blood  and 
emotional  temperament  who  already  cares  greatly. 
Thornton  gave  Clytie  no  reason  to  doubt  his  affection  ; 
if  anything,  he  frightened  her  by  its  excess.  She  yielded 
to  him  in  all  things,  sometimes  half  dreamily,  indiffer- 
ently, without  regret  and  without  sweetness ;  sometimes 
the  surrender  was  infinite  joy. 

In  one  matter,  however,  she  was  called  upon  to  exer- 
cise her  will :  Thornton  did  not  care  how  or  where  the 
marriage  was  performed.  A  man  loathes  weddings, 
particularly  his  own.  It  is  only  the  barbarian  that 
lingers,  as  people  say,  in  the  heart  of  woman  that  de- 
mands ceremonies  and  pomps  and  vanities  ;  a  man,  finer 
in  some  things,  strangely  enough,  sees  a  certain  indelicacy 
in  the  brazen  publicity  of  the  wedding  rites.  True,  this 
view  never  presented  itself  to  Thornton,  who  merely 
wanted  to  call  Clytie  his  own  and  looked  upon  the  for- 
mality of  the  marriage  bond  as  a  necessary  nuisance,  but 
it  came  vividly  to  Clytie,  and  caused  her,  as  she  was 
called  upon  to  decide  in  the  matter,  to  choose  as  quiet  a 
wedding  as  possible.  She  shrank  with  repugnance  from 
the  meaningless  ordeal  of  bridesmaids,  favours,  and  a 
wedding-breakfast.  It  was  only  in  deference  to  Durdle- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  171 

ham  susceptibilities  that  she  did  not  entertain  the  idea 
of  a  civil  marriage  before  a  registrar. 

The  announcement  of  her  engagement  caused  a  flutter 
of  excitement  in  the  family.  Mrs.  Blather  and  Janet 
could  not  understand  a  girl's  art  life,  but  they  could 
understand  a  wedding.  They  settled  it  between  them- 
selves that  Clytie  and  her  fianct  should  come  down  to 
Durdleham  to  be  there  married  in  the  orthodox  fashion. 
They  had  already  drawn  up  a  list  of  guests  and  a  scheme 
of  wedding  arrangements  when  a  letter  arrived  from 
Clytie  saying  that  she  was  to  be  married  almost  immedi- 
ately, and  that  on  no  account  could  the  ceremony  take 
place  at  Durdleham.  The  sisters  were  disappointed. 
Mrs.  Blather  remonstrated,  adding  arguments  and  en- 
treaties that  brought  tears  of  desperation  to  Clytie's 
eyes.  She  hated  the  thought  of  willingly  giving  pain  to 
her  father  and  sisters,  but  a  family  ceremony  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  By  trying  to  explain  the  inexpli- 
cable she  made  matters  worse.  If  Mrs.  Blather  and 
Janet  had  failed  to  understand  her  simple  needs  of  a  free, 
untrammelled  girlish  life,  how  could  they  unravel  the 
tangled  complexities  involving  her  repugnance  to  their 
proposals  ?  At  last  she  wrote  that  the  day  was  definitely 
fixed,  and  that  if  her  sisters  would  not  come  to  town,  no 
one  but  her  friends  the  Farquharsons  and  Winifred 
would  be  present  at  the  ceremony.  To  journey  up  to 
London  for  the  purpose  of  standing  in  a  bleak,  empty 
church  on  a  dismal  March  morning  just  to  see  Clytie 
married  in  a  travelling  dress  was  a  prospect  not  pleasing 
enough  to  be  entertained.  The  sisters  resigned  them- 
selves with  a  sigh  to  circumstances  and  to  a  catalogue 
of  Clytie's  eccentricities  from  her  earliest  years.  Mrs. 
Blather  sent  Clytie  a  pair  of  silver  candlesticks,  Janet 
sent  her  a  tea-service,  and  old  Mr.  Davenant,  who  had 
been  courteously  addressed  by  Hammerdyke  on  the 
subject  of  the  marriage,  sent  her  a  check  for  one  hundred 
pounds.  And  that  ended  the  matter. 

Winifred  spent  the   night  before  the  marriage  with 
Clytie. 

"  Do  come,  Winnie  dear,"  the  latter  had   said.      "  I 
shall  be  so  lonely  and  miserable." 

So  Winnie  came  like  a  spirit  of  peace,  and  the  two  girls 


172  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

cried  a  little  in  each  other's  arms,  and  it  was  the  weaker 
who  comforted  the  stronger. 

"  I  shall  keep  on  the  studio,"  said  Winifred, — "  I  am 
getting  quite  rich,  you  know, — and  then  you  can  come 
sometimes  and  take  off  your  things  and  make  believe  to 
be  back  again.  And  I  shall  come  and  see  you  in  your 
big  house — if  you  will  tell  your  big  husband  not  to  frighten 
me  away." 

"  You  will  always  be  my  own  sweet  Winnie,"  said 
Clytie  tenderly,  "  and  you  will  always  get  the  very  best 
out  of  me  even  if  I  change  utterly  to  everybody  else." 

"  But  how  can  you  change,  dear  ? "  asked  Winifred  in 
her  simple  faith.  For  she  had  lost  her  first  instinctive 
distrust  of  Hammerdyke  in  the  glamour  of  Clyde's  love 
for  him.  "  How  can  you  ever  be  different  from  what 
you  are  and  what  you  have  always  been  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  may  grow  very,  very  wicked  and  selfish  one  of 
these  days,  and  not  care  for  simple  things  any  longer  ; 
and  then  you  might  be  hurt,  and  you  would  know  how 
unworthy  I  was  that  you  should  care  for  me,  and  you 
would  shrink  from  me." 

"  Oh,  Clytie,  darling !  "  cried  Winifred,  throwing  her 
arms  about  her  neck,  "  how  can  you  say  such  things  ? " 

"  It  is  silly,  I  know,"  said  Clytie  ;  "  but  I  sometimes 
feel  that  I  might  do  something  very  wicked  without 
much  compunction  before  I  die." 

"  But  you  are  going  to  lead  a  splendid,  beautiful  life  !  " 
said  Winnie.  "  You  will  live  in  a  great  house,  and  have 
at  your  command  the  most  brilliant  society  in  London, 
all  the  clever,  artistic  people — just  what  you  like.  And 
you  won't  have  to  paint  for  orders,  so  you  need  never 
have  to  cramp  your  genius,  dear.  Oh,  Clytie,  you  will 
simply  be  overflowing  with  happiness  all  your  life  long." 

Clytie  sighed.  The  independence  of  her  half- 
Bohemian  life  was  very  dear  to  her.  This  was  the  last 
night  on  which,  if  it  so  pleased  her,  she  could  go  forth 
into  the  streets,  uncontrolled,  whither  she  would.  Hence- 
forward her  actions  would  have  to  be  referred  to  an 
authority.  To-morrow  she  would  even  change  her  name  ; 
be  transformed  from  the  Clytie  Davenant  whom  she 
knew  into  Mrs.  Hammerdyke,  a  vague,  mysterious  entity, 
with  whose  nature  she  was  unfamiliar.  No  matter  how 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  173 

glorious  the  future,  there  is  always  some  regret  in  leaving 
forever  a  past  phase  of  life  : 

At  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple. 

But  this  was  a  pleasant  place  Clytie  was  about  to  quit, 
and  she  looked  back  upon  its  associations  with  a  sigh. 

In  the  morning  a  commissionnaire  sent  by  Thornton 
came  and  fetched  away  her  trunks,  for  the  newly  mar- 
ried pair  were  to  start  for  the  Continent  immediately 
after  the  ceremony.  When  these  were  despatched 
Clytie  stood  for  a  moment  before  her  glass,  adjusted  the 
clasp  of  her  cape  and  the  set  of  her  broad  gray  beaver 
hat,  and  turning  to  Winifred,  said  quietly  :  "  Let  us  go, 
dear." 

They  drove  together  in  a  hansom  to  St.  Luke's  Church, 
close  by,  where  Thornton  and  the  Farquharsons  were 
waiting  for  them,  in  the  porch.  It  was  a  bright  morn- 
ing, warm  for  the  time  of  year,  and  the  sparrows  and  a 
stray  thrush  plucked  up  heart  of  grace  and  twittered 
cheerily  from  the  trees  in  the  churchyard.  Two 
little  street  children,  with  arms  about  each  other's 
necks,  stood  by  a  near  gravestone  and  looked  at  the 
little  group  with  somewhat  disappointed  eyes.  They 
had  expected  a  bride  in  a  long  white  veil  and  orange- 
blossoms,  a  costume  always  mysteriously  fascinating  to 
the  unsophisticated.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  christening 
after  all,  one  remarked  to  the  other.  But  where  was  the 
baby  ?  The  interior  of  the  empty  church  was  more 
cheerful  than  empty  Protestant  churches  are  wont  to  be. 
The  slanting  sunlight  streamed  many-coloured  through 
the  stained  windows  across  the  nave,  and  a  broad  shaft 
poured  in  from  the  open  south  door  upon  the  vacant 
pews  in  the  aisle.  From  outside  came  faintly  the  hum 
and  rattle  of  the  King's  Road.  The  influences  were 
peaceful,  encouraging,  and  Clytie,  sensitive  to  impres- 
sions, felt  grateful.  The  two  little  children,  with  their 
eyes  on  the  verger,  peeped  in  through  the  door  and 
satisfied  themselves  that  it  was  a  wedding  after  all. 

They  whispered  together  with  many  smiles  and  nods, 
guessing  at  the  dramatis  persona.  Clytie  noticed  them, 
smiled  back  and  nodded.  It  was  as  if  a  bit  of  her  past 


174  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

life  had  come  to  bid  her  be  of  good  cheer.  The  party 
stood  for  a  while  in  the  body  of  the  church,  talking  gaily 
in  low  tones.  Mrs.  Farquharson  was  radiant  at  the 
prospective  accomplishment  of  a  dear  wish. 

"You  must  be  proud  of  your  bride,"  she  said  to 
Thornton.  "Is  she  not  looking  beautiful?" 

And  she  whispered  to  Clytie  : 

"You  must  be  proud  of  your  husband.  Have  you 
ever  seen  a  man  to  compare  with  him  ? " 

Thornton  held  his  head  erect  as  he  gave  Clytie  his 
arm  and  walked  up  to  the  communion  rail.  He  was 
proud  of  her.  The  quiet  gray  of  her  broad  hat  and  her 
cloak  threw  into  relief  the  rich  colouring  of  her  hair  and 
eyes  and  lips.  The  past  two  years  had  completed  her 
womanly  beauty.  Irregularities  of  contour  below  the 
eyes  had  been  toned  down,  the  delicacy  of  modelling 
of  her  face  had  been  accentuated,  and  the  new  emotions 
of  the  past  three  weeks  had  filled  her  great  dark  blue  eyes 
with  a  new,  mysterious  light.  Thornton  pressed  her 
hand  against  his  side,  and  whispered, "  My  darling,"  so 
close  to  her  that  she  felt  his  breath  warm  upon  her  ear. 
She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  her  full  lips  quivering 
ever  so  slightly. 

"  I  should  like  to  kiss  you,"  he  whispered  again. 
"  You  are  so  beautiful." 

In  a  few  moments  it  was  over.  The  words  compro- 
mising a  lifetime  had  been  said.  The  wedding  ring 
gleamed  upon  her  finger.  As  she  passed  with  the  others 
into  the  vestry  she  looked  down  at  it  in  a  daze.  There 
it  was  and  there  it  must  remain  till  death  parted  them, 
a  token  of  submission  and  obedience.  In  the  vestry 
there  were  embraces,  congratulations.  Thornton  kissed 
her  after  the  gallant  fashion  of  a  man  who  can  afford  to 
wait  for  a  warmer  caress.  Winifred  threw  her  arms 
round  her  neck,  weeping.  Mrs.  Farquharson  kissed  her 
in  her  affectionate,  motherly  way.  George  kissed  her 
gravely  on  the  forehead  and  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink 
for  her  to  sign  "  Clytie  Davenant "  for  the  last  time. 
Then  they  found  themselves  in  the  porch  again,  saying 
farewell.  Caroline  laughingly  called  her  "  Mrs.  Ham- 
merdyke  "  as  they  finally  parted.  And  then  the  little 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  1 75 

knot  of  three  waved  their  handkerchiefs  as  the  cab 
drove  off  that  took  her  husband  and  herself  towards 
Victoria. 

"  You  are  mine  now,  my  darling,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hand.  "  All  that  is  most  mine." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  murmured,  returning  his  pressure. 
"Yours  for  always." 

The  commissionnaire  met  them  at  the  station.  He  had 
taken  their  tickets,  settled  their  luggage,  engaged  a  car- 
riage. A  bouquet  of  violets  lay  upon  the  seat.  Clytie 
flashed  a  quick  glance  at  her  husband. 

"  Thank  you  for  thinking.     I  love  them  so  much." 

He  arranged  her  hot-water  can  and  her  rugs  and  sat 
down  by  her  side,  thrusting  up  the  dividing  arms  impa- 
tiently. As  soon  as  the  train  had  moved  out  of  the  station 
he  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her,  and  spoke  to 
her  in  tender,  passionate  words.  The  stop  at  Croydon 
broke  the  continuity  of  this  first  wedded  embrace.  On 
the  platform  outside  the  carriage  window  a  loud  alterca- 
tion was  in  progress  between  the  ticket-collector  and  a 
young  couple  who  objected  to  pay  for  the  ticket  of  a 
tiny  terrier  the  woman  was  carrying.  They  were  of  the 
lower  middle  class,  both  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  She 
was  a  fair,  delicate  woman  of  some  refinement ;  but  the 
husband  was  coarse,  vulgar,  with  the  stamp  of  sensuality 
on  his  sharp,  somewhat  handsome  face.  Moreover,  he 
was  slightly  intoxicated,  and  used  a  foul  expression  to 
qualify  the  collector  after  the  official  had  departed.  A 
flush  rose  to  the  young  woman's  forehead. 

"  Don't,  John,"  she  pleaded.     "  He's  in  his  rights." 

But  the  cad  consigned  his  rights  to  perdition,  and 
moved  off  vulgarly  proclaiming  his  own. 

Clytie  had  heard  this  small  scene  in  a  life's  drama  and 
she  vividly  constructed  the  miserable  tragedy.  When 
the  train  moved  on  again  she  shivered,  with  a  nameless, 
indefinable  sense  of  fear.  Three  months  ago  she  would 
have  noted  the  scene  for  vigorous  transference  to  canvas. 
Now  the  woman  more  than  the  artist  was  stirred. 

"  Please  don't  talk— just  for  a  little,  Thornton,"  she 
said  as  he  began  to  speak. 

He  looked  at  her  somewhat  reproachfully.  She  drew 
off  her  glove  and  put  her  hand  into  his. 


176  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  You  can't  understand — it  all  seems  so  strange.  Let 
me  gather  myself  together  for  a  moment — darling." 

She  trembled  on  the  last  word.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  used  it  to  him. 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  leaned  back  on  the  cushions. 
Clytie  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  telegraph  poles 
and  trees  and  broad  fields  swaying  past.  Whither  was 
this  tearing  train  carrying  her  ?  Out  of  her  life  into  a 
new,  strange  world  whose  habits  and  customs  and  laws 
and  speech  were  all  foreign  to  her  ?  She  was  married. 
She  no  longer  belonged  to  herself.  Her  independence 
was  gone.  She  had  promised  to  love,  honour,  and  obey 
this  man  by  her  side  until  death  should  part  them. 
That  would  be  a  long  time — many,  many  years.  The 
thought  frightened  her.  Until  then  she  had  scarce 
realised  what  married  life  meant,  in  this  respect.  Why 
had  she  married  this  man  ?  As  this  question  passed 
through  her  mind  her  husband  raised  the  hand  he  held 
to  his  lips.  The  blood  rushed  hot  to  her  cheeks,  she 
did  not  finish  the  mental  question,  but  turning  quickly, 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  falling  under  the  spell 
of  his  eyes,  yielded  to  his  arm,  forgetting  all  things. 
He  had  the  power  of  drowning  in  a  more  lurid  blaze 
those  glimmerings  of  self-revelation.  She  whispered  so 
to  him  laughingly,  and  he  accepted  it  as  a  man  generally 
does  accept  such  things — not  seeing  that  it  was  of 
deeper  significance  than  a  woman's  ordinary  tribute  of 
tenderness. 

* "  You  are  my  beautiful  Clytie,"  he  said,  kissing 
her,  and  for  a  season  she  was  content  with  the 
response. 

There  was  a  lover's  silence  between  them,  which  she 
breke  at  length  by  saying  : 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  have  been  much  nicer  if 
we  could  have  had  one  another  on  trial — say  for  six 
months  ? " 

"  So  that  you  could  all  the  time  be  thinking  whether 
you  should  repent  of  your  bargain  ?  Oh,  dear,  no  !  " 

"  Ah !  you  say  that  ;  but  would  it  not  have  been 
better,  if  we  grew  to  hate  each  other,  to  be  able  to 
shake  hands  and  say  good-bye  ?  For  we  may  quarrel 
dreadfully,  you  know." 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  1 77 

He  answered  her  with  tender  assurances,  laughed  at 
her  fears. 

"  We  shall  never  quarrel  if  you  are  a  good  little  girl 
and  do  as  you  are  told,"  he  said. 

Clytie  laughed,  seeing  only  jesting  in  the  remark. 

"  And  we  shall  never  quarrel  if  you  let  me  go  where  I 
like  and  do  what  I  like  and  say  what  I  like." 

"  But  you  will  always  want  to  go  and  do  and  say  as  I 
like,  darling,"  said  Thornton.  "So  we  shall  never 
quarrel." 

"  Then  you  will  never  want  me  to  be  severely  respect- 
able ? "  asked  Clytie,  with  a  touch  of  insistence. 

"  I  shan't  allow  you  to  flirt  with  any  and  everybody,  if 
you  mean  that,"  he  replied,  showing  his  white  teeth  as  he 
smiled. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that — for  the  simple  reason  that  I 
have  a  certain  amount  of  brains." 

"  There  have  been  many  coquettes  with  magnificent 
intellects." 

She  made  no  reply.  Then,  seeing  that  he  had  ruffled 
her,  he  adroitly  turned  their  talk  into  less  dangerous 
channels. 

They  stayed  in  Paris  a  couple  of  days  and  then  con- 
tinued their  journey  to  the  Riviera.  It  was  Clytie's  own 
desire.  In  the  first  flush  of  his  passion  all  places  were 
alike  to  Thornton,  provided  she  were  with  him.  But 
she  longed  to  get  away  from  England,  to  cut  herself 
adrift  for  a  while  from  all  old  associations,  to  surround 
herself  with  new  conditions,  so  that  nothing  should  dis- 
turb the  wonder  of  this  new  love.  And  when,  with  a 
lover's  hyperbole,  he  had  bidden  her  choose  any  spot  on 
the  whole  terrestrial  globe  for  the  passing  of  their  honey- 
moon, she  had  selected  the  Mediterranean. 

They  went  to  the  little  Italian  town  of  Bordighera, 
hidden  away  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains  amidst  its 
palms  and  olive  trees.  Besides  being  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  spots  on  that  beautiful  coast,  it  has  the  charm 
of  quiet.  There  is  no  casino  at  Bordighera,  no  public 
garden,  no  municipal  band.  It  holds  out  to  visitors  no 
attractions  but  its  own  loveliness — hence  the  absence  of 
the  banal,  the  rococo.  A  few  villas  are  dotted  round  it, 
away  from  the  sea.  One  long,  straggling  street  of  shops, 


1 78  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

narrowing  gradually,  leads  up  to  the  old,  picturesque,  evil- 
smelling  town  on  the  hill.  And  this  with  its  narrow  sun- 
less streets  flanked  by  high,  dingy,  gray  houses,  between 
which  the  sky  above  seems  a  narrow  strip  of  Prussian 
blue  ribbon,  its  crooked  byways  and  basement  loggie  of 
cool  malodour,  its  cobble  pavements  on  which  great 
entrance  gateways  gape  like  dark,  noisome  caverns,  offers 
few  attractions  other  than  those  of  quaintness  and  curi- 
osity to  any  but  its  own  inhabitants.  It  is  a  quiet  place, 
devoid  of  the  cosmopolitan  tohnbohu  of  Mentone  or 
Cannes.  An  index  of  this  is  the  fact  that,  save  the  com- 
moner qualities  of  the  Italian  regie,  cigarettes  are  not  to 
be  bought  for  love  or  money  in  Bordighera,  and  these 
in  the  greasiest  ramshackle  shop  imaginable.  If  you 
want  civilised  shops  you  must  go  to  San  Remo. 

Thornton  and  Clyde  spent  the  earlier  portion  of  their 
honeymoon  here  in  unbroken  happiness.  Beyond  casual 
gossip  with  their  table  d'hote  neighbours  they  held  inter- 
course with  no  one.  All  fears,  doubts,  flutterings  of 
regret,  vanished  from  Clytie's  heart,  together  with  all 
sense  of  subjective  life.  She  was  tasting  the  physical  joy 
of  existence  as  it  came  to  her  in  the  passion,  sunlight, 
colour,  warmth,  and  scents  of  the  south.  She  had  chosen 
with  unconscious  wisdom.  The  intensity  of  the  beauty 
of  the  Mediterranean,  its  positivism,  its  splendid  denial 
of  the  melancholic  and  mysterious,  held  her  being  in 
tone  with  the  love  with  which  Thornton  had  inspired  her. 
It  intoxicated  her  with  a  complementary  passion. 

They  drove  one  day  from  Bordighera  through  Venti- 
miglia  to  Mentone.  Halfway  they  stopped  at  a  way- 
side inn,  and  breakfasted  under  a  trellis  of  grape-vine. 
On  the  one  side  was  the  dazzling  white  road,  flanked  by 
the  terraced  hill  of  olive-trees,  the  white  underparts  of 
their  leaves  flashing  like  silver  ;  on  the  other,  below,  the 
gold  sand  and  the  purple  sea.  And  the  sun  streamed 
through  the  vine,  checkering  the  table  and  their  hands 
and  faces.  The  fare  was  poor  and  the  Asti  none  of  the 
best,  but  the  wine  sparkled  and  bubbled  in  the  thick 
tumbler  they  used  in  common,  and  brought  a  keener 
sparkle  into  Clytie's  eyes,  and  a  more  joyous  abandon- 
ment into  her  laugh.  When  they  had  resumed  their 
drive,  and  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  them  into  sight  of 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  179 

Mentone,  her  heart  leaped  at  the  suddenness  with 
which  the  blaze  of  colour  was  revealed.  Below,  over  a 
declining  foreground  of  olive  and  orange  gardens,  lay  the 
white  town  in  a  setting  of  bright  green  foliage,  stretching 
from  horn  to  horn  of  the  bay.  Behind  the  eastern  horn 
projected  dark  and  bold  the  promontory  of  Monaco  with 
the  flashing  white  of  its  castle.  Behind  the  town  rose 
the  two  bare  peaks  of  the  Berceau  standing  out  in  deep 
blue-gray  against  the  intense  violet  sky.  Before  it 
swept  the  broad  belt  of  yellow  sand,  on  which  lapped,  in 
little  idle  waves  whose  ebb  left  a  delicate  fringe  of  white, 
a  still,  unbroken  sea  of  lapis  lazuli,  melting  through 
infinite  gradations  of  blue  streaked  with  arbitrary  pur- 
ples into  the  deep  ultramarine  that  met  the  paler  sky  far 
away  on  the  horizon.  The  burst  of  intense  colour  of 
sky  and  sea  and  land,  glowing  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
sweep,  drowned  Clytie's  being  in  a  sensuous  flood.  It 
was,  as  it  were,  the  projection  of  physical  passion  into 
something  visible,  thus  baring  to  the  eyes  its  wonderful 
beauty.  She  uttered  a  little  inarticulate  gasp,  a  catching 
of  the  breath.  They  were  quite  alone,  the  coachman 
half  asleep  in  the  sun  on  his  box.  Thornton  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  She  turned,  closed  her 
eyes.  All  creation,  from  the  world  of  wonder  before  her 
to  the  tiniest  quivering  fibre  within  her,  vibrated  with  an 
intoxicating  thrill  of  delight.  She  caught  his  hand,  drew 
his  arm  tighter,  and  lifted  her  lips  to  his  in  a  long,  long 
kiss. 

Thenceforward  her  stay  on  the  Riviera  was  one  unin- 
terrupted delight.  It  was  a  dream  in  which  the  mind 
lay  subject  to  the  sense.  She  was  in  a  blue  mist,  which 
hid  impenetrably  past  and  future,  and  informed  the 
visible  area  about  her  feet  with  unutterable  sweetness. 
"  Don't  expect  me  to  write  letters,"  she  said  in  a  hastily 
scribbled  note  to  Caroline.  "  This  is  a  land  in  which 
words  have  no  part.  You  might  as  well  expect  me  to 
talk  the  '  Moonlight  Sonata '  to  you."  And  Caroline, 
being  a  wise  woman,  smiled.  Yet,  after  all,  her  wisdom 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it — for  anything  feminine  would 
have  divined.  The  days  flew  on  wings  of  fire.  She 
never  read,  never  worked  ;  her  sketch-book  remained 
empty.  Often  .they  sat  at  their  sitting-room  window, 


l8o  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

looking  out  on  to  the  Strada  Romana,  hand  in  hand, 
without  speaking,  save  for  a  murmured  caress,  for  an 
hour  together.  Or  they  walked  up  between  the  olives, 
past  the  famous  high  wall  with  its  gorgeous  coat  of 
mesembryanthemum,  through  the  narrow,  crooked  town, 
down  the  rugged  descent  to  the  surf-beaten  shore,  where 
the  great  white  solitary  casa  stands,  and  there  sat  down 
in  the  shade  of  the  big  rocks  and  watched  the  glowing 
"  countless  laughter  "  of  the  sea.  Often  they  rambled 
through  the  cool,  sunless  olive  gardens,  rising  terrace 
after  terrace  apparently  into  the  deep  violet  sky.  The 
scent  of  the  rosemary  and  wild  thyme  beneath  their 
feet  rose  penetrating  and  filled  the  blood,  and  Thornton 
would  pick  a  handful,  and  laughingly  hold  it  between 
them  above  their  lips  as  he  kissed  her.  And  when  they 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill  they  sat  under  a  tree,  and 
Clytie  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  let  her  eye 
wander  over  the  low-lying  ridges  of  the  Maritime  Alps 
rising  in  endless  soft-rounded  undulations,  like  the 
many-breasted  mother  of  men,  in  each  bosom  nestling  a 
compact  white  townlet  gathered  around  the  slated  cupola 
.of  its  church;  and  the  soft  sunlight  layover  all,  trans- 
fused through  the  blue  atmosphere.  Then  she  would 
say:  "Don't  let  us  talk,  Thornton  ";  but  there  was  a 
different  meaning  to  the  words  from  that  which  they  had 
when  she  uttered  them  in  the  train  as  it  left  Croydon. 

Sometimes  they  went  away  from  Bordighera  for  two 
or  three  days  ;  visited  Nice,  Cannes,  Monte  Carlo.  At 
Monte  Carlo  Clytie  won  three  or  four  hundred  francs  at 
the  roulette  tables.  Gambling  had  never  come  before 
within  her  experience  of  things.  She  plunged  into  it 
with  childish  recklessness,  looking  round  with  glowing 
face  and  laughter  in  her  eyes  at  her  husband  when  she 
won,  and  drawing  a  short  little  breath  of  dismay  when 
the  croupier  raked  in  her  stake.  The  game,  the  inten- 
sity of  the  strange  faces,  seen  nowhere  else, — faces 
which  bore  the  stamp  of  combinations  of  the  seven  deadly 
sins  taken  from  two  to  half  a  dozen  together, — the  subtle 
working  in  that  great,  glittering  room  of  all  the  passions 
under  heaven,  attracted  her,  fascinated  her.  The  artistic 
temperament  caught  the  impressions,  instinctively,  un- 
consciously registered  them,  thus  widening  and  deepen- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  l8l 

ing  her  conception  of  life.  It  was  a  luxury  of  sense  to 
leave  the  babel  passion  of  the  Casino  and  to  walk  arm 
in  arm  on  the  terrace  or  in  the  grounds.  There  the 
music  came  faintly  and  mingled  with  the  far-off  splash 
of  the  sea  away  below  them  and  the  rustle  of  the  palms 
and  drachinas.  On  the  right  stretched  out  Monaco, 
clustering  like  a  group  of  fireflies  below  the  white 
bastioned  castle.  Behind  them  rose  the  black  mass  of 
the  Maritime  Alps  with  the  Mont  Agel  towering  dis- 
tinct above.  The  air  was  soft  and  warm,  recovering 
from  the  sudden  shock  of  sundown.  What  they  said  to 
one  another  matters  little.  He  saw  that  she  was  beauti- 
tiful  and  filled  with  the  sense  of  his  love,  and  he  was 
happy.  To  Clytie  life  meant  unutterable  things. 

On  the  third  morning  of  their  stay  at  Monte  Carlo 
Thornton  returned  from  a  short  stroll  and  came  into 
their  room. 

"  A  man  I  know  has  just  come  by  the  train  and  I  fled 
from  him,"  he  said  ;  "  let  us  go  somewhere  else." 

Clytie  was  pleased. 

"  I  am  glad  you  still  want  us  to  be  quite,  quite  alone," 
she  replied.  "  But  you  are  sure  you  are  not  a  little  bit 
weary  of  me  ?  " 

He  answered  as  many  millions  of  men  more  or  less 
sincere  have  answered.  And  Clytie  thought  neither  of 
believing  nor  of  disbelieving  him,  as  many  millions  of 
women  have  done.  The  subjective  is  apt  to  crop  up 
afterwards  and  it  generally  causes  trouble.  But  in  the 
passion  of  a  kiss  woman,  being,  like  man,  of  flesh  and 
blood,  and  not  an  abstraction,  does  not  calculate  remote 
psychological  contingencies  ;  if  she  does,  the  kissing  is 
all  a  mistake.  Once,  towards  the  end  of  their  honey- 
moon, Clytie  did  touch  upon  the  subjective.  They  were 
sitting  by  the  ruined  tower  on  the  hill  above  the  Strada 
Romana.  Clytie  was  heated  and  had  taken  off  her  hat, 
and  the  breeze  ruffled  her  hair  as  she  leaned  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree.  Thornton  sprawled  by  her  side,  resting 
his  chin  on  his  hand  and  looking  at  her. 

"  I  always  grudge  your  wearing  a  hat,"  he  said. 
"  Your  beautiful  hair  ought  not  to  be  hidden.  You 
look  much  lovelier  now  that  it  is  free  for  the  wind  to 
kiss." 


1 82  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

She  laughed  a  contented  little  laugh,  throwing  her 
chin  up,  according  to  her  way. 

"  Do  you  know,  Thornton,"  she  said  with  a  little 
hesitation,  in  which  there  was  much  charm,  "  being 
called  beautiful  every  day  is  one  of  the  great  novelties 
of  the  situation.  I  always  knew  I  was  good  to  look 
upon,  and  sometimes  I  really  was  very  pleased  to  behold 
myself.  But  before  I  knew  you,  dear,  it  never  made 
anything  of  a  factor  in  my  daily  life.  And  now  I  almost 
begin  to  think  it's  the  only  quality  I  have." 

"  Given  that,  you  can  let  all  the  others  go He 

waved  his  hand  vaguely,  consigning  them  to  the  Ewigkeit. 

"  But  that's  not  all  that  you  love  me  for,  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

An  idle  question,  with  an  unsuspected  fear  lurking  in 
its  heart. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  love  you.  It  has  never  occurred 
to  me  to  investigate  the  matter." 

"  Well,  try.  It  will  be  like  playing  the  game,  '  I  love 
my  love  with  an  A  '  !  " 

Thornton  shook  his  head  boyishly,  and  laughed. 

"  It  would  spoil  it  all  !  "  he  said — "  to  go  worrying 
about  what  lies  under  that  sweet  face  of  yours.  Can't 
you  understand,  darling?  What  do  your  qualities  matter 
to  me  ?  Provided  I  can  take  you  in  my  arms  and  kiss 
you  as  much  as  I  like,  what  concern  is  it  of  mine  whether 
you  are  acquainted  with  the  cookery  book  or  spell  art 
with  a  capital  A  ?  Don't  you  think  it's  more  satisfac- 
tory to  lie  here  and  look  into  your  great  blue  eyes,  and 
your  hair  with  the  sun  and  wind  playing  hide  and  seek 
in  it,  and  your  bosom  rising  and  falling,  than  to  specu- 
late whether  you  are  even-tempered  or  vindictive  or 
ambitious  or  fond  of  Adelaide  Proctor's  poetry?" 

"  What  a  boy  you  are  ! "  she  cried  light-heartedly, 
stretching  out  her  hand  so  as  to  run  her  fingers  over  his 
crisp  brown  hair.  "  So  my  face  has  been  my  fortune  !  " 

"And  your  figure,"  he  remarked  critically.  "The 
whole  of  you  !  " 

"  Tell  me,"  she  continued,  "  what  would  you  have 
done  if  I  hadn't  married  you?" 

He  started  up  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"  I  should  have  gone  straight  back  to  Africa  and 
played  the  very  devil  there  !  But  you  were  bound  to 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  183 

marry  me,  you  know  ;  and  if  you  had  been  already  a 
married  woman,  I  should  have  got  to  you  somehow.  I 
have  been  hit  before  in  my  time,  over  and  over,  but 
never  till  I  met  you  did  I  think  a  woman  worth  the  mar- 
riage service.  But  you're  a  witch,  Clytie,"  he  added, 
resuming  his  former  attitude,  "  the  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Clytie,  •'  poor  knight-at-arms  ! 
And  you  do  look  '  so  haggard  and  so  woe-begone,'  don't 
you  ?" 

She  laughed  as  she  looked  at  his  great  frame  lying  at 
her  feet,  and  his  strong,  handsome  dark  face,  with  its 
health  and  masterfulness.  Then  she  continued  in  the 
lightness  of  her  heart : 

"  But  seriously,  now,  Thornton,  very  seriously.  You 
do  want  me  to  be  a  little  help  to  you  in  your  life — in 
other  ways — don't  you?  In  your  ambitions,  your  work 
in  the  world  generally.  We  must  begin  to  talk  about 
such  things  soon,  you  know." 

Thornton  laughed  lazily  as  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"  My  work  in  the  world  is  to  love  you,  my  dear,  and 
I'll  promise  to  let  you  help  me  in  that  as  much  as  you 
like." 

But  Clytie  insisted.  Sometimes  the  subjective  gets 
too  much  for  a  woman. 

"  Ah,  Thornton  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  feel  that 
we  are  much  more  than  lovers.  That  will  wear  off  after 
a  time.  Oh,  yes  !  don't  tell  me  it  won't  ;  a  woman  learns 
things  all  with  a  rush,  you  see.  And  I  want  to  feel  that 
we  are  one  in  everything,  in  all  our  sympathies  and 
views  of  life,  our  ambitions,  in  all  the  high  and  great 
things  that  lie  before  you.  I  want  to  be  in  touch  with 
everything  you  do  and  think — to  be  a  real  helpmeet  for 
you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  laughing. 

"  I  have  got  a  lot  to  learn  in  the  way  of  connubial 
responsibilities,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have  to  train  me,  my 
dear.  But  allow  me  to  remark  that  the  sun  is  just  going 
to  dip  over  there  by  the  Nervia,  and  if  we  want  to  get  in 
by  sunset  we  shall  have  to  run  like  the  deuce  ! " 

As  this  was  a  serious  matter, — on  the  Riviera  it  is  one 
of  the  grave  responsibilities  of  life, — Clytie  let  herself  be 


184  AT   THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

lifted  to  her  feet,  put  on  her  hat  quickly,  and  holding 
her  husband's  hand,  ran  merrily  with  him  down  the  hill. 
The  exercise  and  the  laughter  drove  things  subjective 
out  of  her  head  for  a  season.  But  in  the  after-time  the 
ghost  of  this  little  conversation  came  and  sat  at  the  head 
of  her  bed,  making  mock  at  a  few  others  who  sat  on  the 
foot-rail.  A  thing  does  not  require  to  be  as  objective  as 
a  murdered  monk  to  have  a  little  ghost  all  to  itself. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

PERHAPS  if  they  had  remained  in  Bordighera  the 
intoxication  would  have  lasted  longer.  But  as  our  lives 
are  hemmed  in  by  infinite  possibilities,  to  each  of  which 
is  strung  its  infinite  ramification  of  consequences,  it  is 
somewhat  rash  to  predicate  ex  hypothesi.  At  any  rate  so 
long  as  they  were  at  Bordighera  there  seemed  to  be  no 
reason  that  the  continuity  of  the  charm  should  be  broken  ; 
whereas  it  did  suffer  a  change  during  the  railway  jour- 
ney from  Bordighera  to  Paris.  And  this  railway  journey 
was  a  kind  of  neutral  ground  in  their  married  life, 
separating  the  dream  from  the  reality.  On  entering  the 
train  they  were  lovers.  On  leaving  it  they  were  a 
married  couple.  Wherein  lies  somewhat  of  a  difference. 
They  were  not  conscious  of  the  change.  Realisation  of 
this  mysterious  operation  is  fortunately  denied  to  human 
beings,  seeing  that  they  turn  their  eyes  inwards  rather  too 
much  as  it  is  already.  Nor  do  they  recognise  what  has 
happened  until  some  time  afterwards,  as  the  old  influ- 
ences still  remain  lingeringly  ;  but  then  they  can  gener- 
ally look  back  to  the  point  of  transition,  and  set  it  up  as 
a  forlorn  landmark  in  their  lives. 

Why  they  did  not  remain  longer  in  the  south  they 
themselves  could  scarcely  explain.  They  had  arranged 
to  spend  a  month  there,  and  then  to  proceed  to  Paris  to 
wait  indefinitely  until  their  new  house  in  the  Cromwell 
Road  should  be  ready  to  receive  them.  There  is 
nothing  so  irrefragable  as  an  arbitrary  programme. 
Even  the  most  emancipated  enslave  themselves  to  it 
sometimes,  as  in  the  present  case  did  Thornton  and 
Clytie  They  possibly  lost  a  good  deal, — the  flowers  of 
life  seldom  grow  along  the  beaten  track, — but  they  never 
thought  of  attributing  it  to  the  fixity  of  their  programme. 
They  were  in  Paris,  then,  living  under  totally  fresh  con- 
ditions. Thornton  found  there  a  succession  of  friends 

185 


1 86  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

and  acquaintances,  and  was  pleased  rather  than  other- 
wise to  meet  them.  At  Monte  Carlo  he  fled  from 
Carteret  of  the  Hussars  ;  on  the  Boulevard  des  Capucines 
he  greeted  him  heartily  and  carried  him  off  into  the 
American  Bar.  Besides  discovering  acquaintances  daily 
in  the  hotel  list,  Thornton  was  not  unknown  in  general 
Parisian  society.  His  name  could  procure  him  admis- 
sion into  most  circles  that  he  cared  to  enter.  He  was 
put  up  at  a  couple  of  clubs  and  received  invitation 
cards  by  the  dozen. 

To  please  him  Clytie  went  with  him  a  little  into 
society.  He  was  proud  of  his  beautiful  wife,  loved  to 
watch  the  effect  produced  as  she  entered  a  drawing- 
room  upon  his  arm,  and  the  eager  admiration  on  the 
faces  of  the  men  who  crowded  round  her  chair.  In  fact, 
Clytie  had  a  small  social  success — and  a  paragraph  in 
the  Figaro.  It  was  a  new  sensation  for  her ;  but  in 
these  early  days  of  her  married  life  she  would  have  pre- 
ferred a  quieter,  less  conspicuous  existence.  But  Thorn- 
ton, just  as  he  had  sought  in  the  south  to  keep  her  and 
her  beauty  to  himself,  now  seemed  to  wish  to  exhibit  it 
abroad. 

"  I  seem  to  wear  you  like  a  decoration,  darling,"  he 
said  once. 

At  first  Clytie  flushed  with  pleasure  at  the  little 
flattery.  Then  she  thought  over  it  for  a  bit,  and  it  did 
not  please  her  so  much.  But  she  did  not  confide  this 
to  her  husband.  She  had  already  begun  to  discover  that 
for  the  safekeeping  of  many  little  matters  her  own  heart 
was  the  best  place. 

They  had  a  set  of  rooms  in  a  hotel  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  with  a  balcony  overlooking  the  Grande  Avenue. 
Clytie  loved  to  sit  there  with  Thornton  in  the  quiet  half 
hour  before  dinner  watching  the  stream  of  vehicles,  fine 
and  vague  far  away  by  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  then  grad- 
ually broadening,  till  fashionable  Paris  returning  from 
the  Bois  blazed  beneath  her  in  its  movement  and  gaiety. 
They  seemed  to  her  so  alone  up  there,  above  the  whirl 
and  the  glitter  and  falseness.  It  was  a  return  of  the 
hours  of  the  month  in  the  south,  and  happiness  fluttered 
tremulously  around  her — like  a  butterfly,  ever  so  elusively. 
When  she  leaned  over  the  balcony  by  his  side  many 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  187 

people  looked  up  admiringly  at  them.  When  she  saw 
one  woman  twitch  the  arm  of  her  companion  in  a  victoria, 
and  both  shoot  swift  feminine  glances  up  at  the  balcony, 
she  could  not  help  feeling  a  little  thrill  of  pride  in  her 
husband.  And  then  she  would  remember  the  morning's 
solitary  ramble  among  the  sculpture  of  the  Louvre 
(Thornton  and  herself  were  less  dependent  upon  each 
other  now  for  entertainment),  and  reflect,  with  a  sense  of 
pleasure,  that  she  had  seen  no  antique  ideal  that  could 
compare  with  him  in  splendid  manhood.  He,  too,  had 
done  heroic  deeds,  she  would  think,  and  she  would  move 
nearer  to  his  side  and  be  glad  that  he  was  there.  Yet 
the  butterfly  happiness  was  just  beyond  her  grasp. 

Some  such  thoughts  were  passing  through  her  mind 
one  afternoon  as  they  stood  together  on  the  balcony. 
He  broke  a  short  silence  by  saying  : 

"  We  are  getting  quite  an  old  married  couple, 
Clyde  !  " 

"  What  made  you  say  that  ?  "  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  Oh  !  I  hardly  know.  I  have- got  so  used  to  having 
you  by  me.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  been  married  ever  since 
I  was  born." 

"It  does  seem  a  long,  long  time  ago  that  we  first 
passed  through  Paris.  But  I  can't  say  I  am  quite  used 
to  matrimony  yet.  Do  you  know,  I  have  sometimes 
hoped  that  I  never  should  be." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  At  present,  dear,  it  is  all  glamour 
and  mystery,  and  when  you  get  too  familiar  with  the 
glamour  it  turns  into  the  commonplace.  That's  why  I 
am  just  a  little  bit  sorry  we  left  Bordighera." 

"It  was  certainly  very  jolly,"  he  assented  reflectively. 
"  But  we  are  having  as  good  a  time  here,  aren't  we  ?" 

"  Well,  I  like  these  little  half  hours  best,"  said  Clytie, 
"  when  we  are  alone  together.  When  we  are  parted  it 
seems  as  if  I  am  suddenly  called  upon  to  live  as  an 
individual  and  do  not  quite  know  how  to  begin.  You 
see,  when  I  am  alone  with  you  I  know  how  to  behave  as 
Clytie  Hammerdyke,  but  not  yet  when  I  am  by  myself 
or  with  other  people." 

Thornton  laughed,  as  a  man  in  love  laughs  when  he 
thinks  he  is  replying  to  an  idle,  pretty  remark. 


l88  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  You  have  always  Clytie  Davenant  to  fall  back  upon," 
he  said. 

"  Have  I  ?  That's  just  the  question  I  have  been  put- 
ting to  myself.  But  I  can't  explain  it  to  you.  I  don't 
think  you  would  understand." 

"  Of  course  I  understand  !  "  he  cried  quickly.  "  You 
have  to  mix  with  people  as  a  married  woman,  and  you 
are  a  bit  shy  at  first.  But  you'll  pull  through  all  right, 
dear.  Why,  as  it  is,  you  are  superb." 

"  Oh,  come,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  I  can  talk  to  people 
without  blushing  and  morally  biting  the  corner  of  my 
apron.  I  meant  something  a  little  more  subtle  than  that. 
You  see,  after  all,  you  don't  understand.  I  can  never, 
never  be  Clytie  Davenant  again.  She  was  buried  for 
good  and  all  at  Bordighera." 

"  And  my  sweet  phoenix  has  arisen  out  of  her  ashes," 
said  Thornton. 

"  If  you  like — and  the  phoenix  hasn't  quite  got  the 
sense  of  her  environment  yet." 

"  All  this  is  very  pretty,  my  dear,"  said  Thornton,  with 
a  laugh.  "  But  I  can't  quite  see  what  we  are  driving 
at." 

"  Have  I  been  talking  such  great  nonsense,  then  ? 
Perhaps  it  all  tended  to  express  the  fact  that  when  I  am 
with  you  I  don't  think  of  myself  ;  when  we  are  apart 
I  am  confronted  with  myself,  and  feel  embarrassed. 
You  see,  Thornton  dear,"  she  went  on,  "I  have  lived  a 
queer  kind  of  life,  full  of  such  different  hopes  and 
dreams.  I  scarcely  thought  about  marriage  in  those 
days.  I  knew  that  love  would  come  to  me  some  time  or 
the  other,  but  then  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  all  be  mixed 

up  with  my  art,  whereas  now Oh,  you  can't  see 

how  different  it  is  !  " 

There  was  no  tone  of  sadness  or  regret  in  her  voice  as 
she  said  this,  but  a  touch  of  tenderness,  a  tribute,  as  it 
were,  to  his  influence. 

"  But  there's  nothing  to  hinder  you  from  amusing 
yourself  with  painting  pictures,  is  there  ? "  asked  her 
husband  lightly.  "  You  have  no  call  now  to  earn  a 
livelihood,  but  you  can  paint  all  day  if  you  like,  my 
dear." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  paint — I  could  not  live  without  it — 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  189 

except  perhaps  such  a  month  as  last.  But,  don't  you  see, 
my  art  was  once  the  guiding  principle  of  my  life.  Now 
I  have  my  art  and  my  love,  and  they  seem  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  each  other.  They  are  on  different 
planes,  so  to  speak.  It  is  all  that  that  makes  me  feel  I 
don't  quite  realise  myself  yet  when  I  have  to  leave  the 
love  plane  for  a  little." 

"  Don't  leave  it,"  said  Thornton, 

"  Ah  !  we  have  done  that  by  going  away  from 
Bordighera,  and  leading  this  dissipated  life  here,"  she 
replied,  laughing.  "  But  we  can  get  on  and  off  when- 
ever we  like,  you  know.  That  is  one  comfort." 

"Well, "said  Thornton,  lighting  a  cigarette,  and  speak- 
ing between  the  first  few  whiffs,  "  marriage  must  make 
some  difference.  You  have  lived  a  free  and  easy,  eman- 
cipated life  among  artistic  people,  and  now  you  belong 
to  somebody  else — a  wild  barbarian,  who  could  no  more 
tell  you  how  to  paint  a  picture  than  how  to  cut  out  a 
dress.  Of  course  it  makes  a  difference  in  your  way  of 
viewing  things.  It  has  made  a  difference  in  mine  too, 
by  Jove  !  When  a  yearning  for  Africa  comes  over  me  I 
have  to  say :  No  ;  I  have  a  wife,  with  her  arms, — the 
roundest  in  the  world,  my  dear, — about  my  neck.  And 
so  I  have  got  to  settle  down  to  politics  and  domesticity 
in  the  Cromwell  Road." 

"  But  you  don't  regret  it,  do  you,  Thornton  ? "  she 
asked,  womanlike. 

"  Look  at  me  and  see  if  I  do,"  he  said. 

Clytie  obeyed  him,  half  shyly,  feeling,  as  she  always 
did  since  her  return  to  Paris,  the  fascination,  half  pleas- 
ant, half  painful,  of  his  eyes.  He  loved  her.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  that.  Yet  the  nature  of  his  love  some- 
times frightened  her  a  little  if  she  strayed  for  a  moment 
off  the  "  love  plane."  Her  own  responsiveness  she  never 
questioned,  preferring  to  shut  her  eyes  and  let  the  current 
of  his  love  carry  her  whither  it  would.  But  at  times 
now,  during  her  solitary  walks  through  the  Louvre,  the 
thought  obtruded,  What  would  the  new  life  be  like  ? 
Not  these  early  days,  which  were  holidays  from  the 
seriousnesses  of  existence,  but  the  life  in  the  years  that 
lay  before  her,  of  whose  responsibilities  she  had  as  yet 
but  vague  premonitions.  How  would  her  art  be  affected  ? 
13 


190  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Would  it  lose  or  gain  in  that  breadth  and  insight  that  it 
needed  ?  Would  she  continue  to  reckon  herself  an  artist 
at  all,  or  would  she  only  degenerate  into  the  amateur — 
painting  little  meaningless  pictures  for  amusement  ? 
And  at  the  end  of  a  year  would  she  not  stand  face  to 
face  with  a  new  Clytie,  paler,  more  shadowy,  and  there- 
fore less  insistently  demanding  self-expression  ?  Even 
these  few  weeks  had  changed  her  :  what  would  she  be 
at  the  end  of  one  year,  two  years,  twenty  years  ?  Hap- 
pier, with  all  her  old  cravings  satisfied,  with  her  indi- 
viduality worked  out  to  its  fullest,  with  the  riddle  of  life 

joyously  solved  ?  Or  else She  scarcely  dared  think 

of  it.  She  looked  at  what  had  been  written  in  her  Book 
of  New  Formulas,  and  found  that  the  marriage  service 
had  been  omitted.  It  merely  said  that  marriage  was 
unformularisable,  an  easy  way  of  curving  a  contumelious 
lip  at  the  old  formulas  which  she  had  rebelled  against, 
but  scarcely  satisfactory  in  her  present  position.  Now, 
in  the  Old  Formulas,  marriage  was  minutely,  scrupulously 
regulated  by  the  most  definite  of  rules.  Although  they 
broke  up  the  poem  of  life  into  a  disjointed  copy-book,  or 
at  best  into  a  collection  of  elegant  extracts,  still  they 
presented  a  homogeneous  scheme.  Should  she  at  last 
have  to  accept  this,  confess  to  Mrs.  Blather  smiling  com- 
placently that  the  Durdleham  philosophy  was  the  only 
one  ?  But  then  she  would  look  at  her  husband  and  take 
a  measure  of  comfort.  Such  a  man  could  not  come  out 
of  Durdleham. 

That  was  her  consolation  in  the  perplexities  that  the 
problem  of  her  married  life  caused  her.  She  took 
refuge  from  herself,  her  thoughts,  her  forebodings,  in  his 
grand  strength  and  personal  magnetism.  It  was  inter- 
mittent intoxication,  this  long  Paris  after-honeymoon, 
rather  than  continuous  charm,  and  the  intervals  of  sober- 
ness had  their  wearinesses.  She  had  thrown  her  cap 
over  the  windmills.  Sometimes  she  regretted  it. 

On  the  evening  after  the  above  conversation  they 
went  to  the  opera,  where  they  had  taken  a  box  with  the 
Claverings,  army  people  with  whom  Thornton  had  been 
intimate  in  Cairo.  Clytie  had  met  them  only  for  a 
moment  the  day  before,  and  had  not  been  favourably 
impressed.  However,  they  were  Thornton's  friends,  and 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  191 

it  behoved  her  to  appreciate  them.  Mrs.  Clavering 
passed  for  being  a  clever  woman  by  virtue  of  a  plain 
face  and  a  vivacious  manner  ;  also  because  she  ruled  her 
husband  and  had  a  cultivated  taste  in  sherry. 

Thornton  had  admired  her  some  years  before. 
Mammas  with  marriageable  daughters  put  it  in  that 
way  ;  those  who  could  afford  to  be  independent  put  it  in 
another.  Whichever  way  they  put  it  in  no  wise  affected 
the  parties  concerned.  Mrs.  Clavering  was  too  superior 
a  woman  to  allow  idle  gossip  to  influence  her  or  her 
husband.  Now  she  was  eight-and-thirty,  she  had  seen 
the  world  and  had  preserved  few  illusions,  least  of  all 
any  respecting  Thornton  Hammerdyke.  She  met  him 
with  a  cynical  encouragement,  which  to  some  men  is 
flattering. 

Clytie  was  quick  to  notice  her  manner  towards  Thorn- 
ton, and  resented  it.  There  was  a  touch  of  banal 
familiarity,  too,  in  his  talk  with  Mrs.  Clavering  that 
jarred  upon  her.  The  tone  was  undignified,  suggestive 
of  the  falser  strata  of  regimental  society,  in  which  frank- 
ness stands  for  scarcely  veiled  mutual  contempt. 

He  was  sitting  behind  Mrs.  Clavering,  who  smiled  in  a 
superior,  half-patronising  way  at  his  remarks.  Clytie 
listened  to  the  music  absently,  wished  they  had  come 
alone.  The  house  was  crowded,  and  the  air  was  stifling. 
She  found  the  opera,  "  La  Juive,"  uninteresting. 

"  I  am  going  to  carry  off  your  husband  to  the  terrace, 
Mrs.  Hammerdyke,"  said  Mrs.  Clavering  at  the  end  of 
the  second  act,  "  and  I  leave  you  mine  in  pledge.  I  hope 
he  will  take  good  care  of  you." 

He  was  a  heavy  but  honest  Briton,  who  idolised  his 
wife,  his  dinner,  and  the  British  Constitution.  As  neither 
the  opera  nor  Clytie  came  within  this  area  of  adoration, 
he  treated  them  with  a  polite  though  somewhat  embar- 
rassed indifference.  Still  he  acquitted  himself  of  his 
charge  satisfactorily  and  entertained  Clytie  during  the 
entr'acte.  After  a  tour  round  the  house  he  found  a 
seat  for  her  in  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus  and  talked  with 
solemn  fitfulness.  Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was 
oppressive  indoors  and  he  took  her  out  upon  the  terrace. 
Clytie  did  not  wish  to  stay  there  long — only  for  a 
moment  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  She  remained  for 


I92  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

a  little  leaning  on  the  broad  balustrade  and  looking  at 
the  scene  in  front  of  her — the  broad  place  below  with  the 
continuous  passing  to  and  fro  of  vehicles  crossing  each 
other  in  all  directions,  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  on  the  right 
with  its  crowded  tables  far  out  on  the  pavement  and  tray- 
laden  waiters  hurrying  between  them,  the  glittering 
vista  of  lights  in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  the  duller  line 
of  lamps  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  with  the  Vendome  column 
towering  high  in  the  dim  moonlight.  It  was  so  instinct 
with  gaiety  and  movement  and  the  brightness  of  life  that 
a  little  thrill  of  its  gladness  passed  through  her,  ending 
in  a  strange  kind  of  sob  that  filled  her  throat.  She  took 
her  companion's  arm,  and  went  across  through  the 
stream  of  loungers  back  into  the  heavy  air  of  the  Salle 
des  Pas  Perdus. 

Meanwhile  Thornton  and  Mrs.  Clavering  had  estab- 
lished themselves  in  a  corner  at  the  end  of  the  terrace. 

"It  seems  like  old  times  —  on  the  veranda  —  at  a 
regimental  dance,"  she  said.  "  At  least  that  is  what  you 
were  going  to  say,  I  suppose.  I  never  yet  met  an  old 
admirer  but  what  he  made  some  remark  of  the  kind. 
So  I  have  saved  you  from  the  commonplace." 

"  I  was  meditating  some  politeness  of  the  sort,"  replied 
Thornton  carelessly.  "  I  thought  you  would  expect  it." 

"  I  hope  you  will  always  have  the  same  delicate  con- 
sideration for  others,  Mr.  Hammerdyke.  How  long  are 
you  going  to  be  good  and  domestic  ?  " 

"  Always,  I  suppose.  I  am  going  to  run  politics  and 
that  sort  of  show." 

Mrs.  Clavering  laughed  lightly. 

"  Ha  !  When  I  see  you  at  it  I'll  believe  it — unless 
you  have  changed  extraordinarily  since  I  last  knew  you. 
And  you  don't  look  much  changed.  Perhaps  matrimony 
will  work  the  miracle.  Ha  !  ha  !  Pardon  my  laugh- 
ing, but  it  seems  so  ridiculous  to  see  you,  of  all  people, 
married." 

"  I  suppose  I  have  human  attributes  somewhere  about 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Too  vastly  human,  my  poor  friend  ;  that  is  where  the 
danger  lies.  To  err  is  human,  you  know.  I  hope 
your  wife  will  do  the  divine  part  of  the  business,  as 
women  generally  do,  and  forgive.  By  the  way,  I  have 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  193 

not  made  you  my  compliment,  as  they  say  in  this  country. 
I  think  your  wife  simply  perfect." 

"  We  agree  there  for  once,"  replied  Thornton  drily. 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it.  Can't  you  see  I  am  dying  to 
know  ?  That  is  why  I  brought  you  out  here.  Who  is 
she  ?  Where  did  you  meet  her  ?  Were  you  long 
engaged  ?  And  I  know  you  too  are  dying  to  talk  to 
someone  about  her.  You  may  as  well  gratify  the  crav- 
ing while  you  still  have  it." 

"  I  believe  you  are  madly  jealous,  Clara.  Pardon  my 
frankness.  But  you  and  I  always  went  in  for  being 
frank  with  one  another." 

"Call  it  amiable  brutality — it  would  be  better." 

"  As  you  like.  I  never  went  in  for  splitting  hairs.  I 
suppose  it's  brutal  to  say  you  are  jealous." 

"  It  is  simply  idiotic.  Therefore  I  bear  you  no  ill 
will  for  your  saying  so.  I  honestly  admire  your  wife, 
and  think  you  have  got  very  much  more  than  you 
deserve,  and  I  am  femininely  curious.  Now  perhaps 
you  will  tell  me." 

"  Well,  I  met  her  at  a  cousin's  house.  She  is,  or  rather 
was,  an  artist." 

"  I  appreciate  the  distinction.     Proceed." 

Thornton  threw  himself  back  with  a  great  laugh 
against  the  balustrade,  his  elbows  resting  upon  it,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  I  think  you  are  just  a  little  bit  jealous,"  he  said. 
"  Well — to  finish  my  story.  She  is  of  an  old  Bucking- 
hamshire family,  and  we  were  engaged  about  a  month. 
And  then  we  were  married.  But  tell  me,  by  way  of 
changing  the  conversation " 

"  Which  may  be  painful." 

"  Precisely.  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  in 
Paris  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  As  long  as  Paris  pleases  me.  Am  I 
going  to  see  you  any  more,  or  are  you  too  much  en- 
grossed ?  I  don't  want  to  take  you  away  from  your 
duties." 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  likely  to,  Clara." 

"  Possibly  not.  Your  wife  will  keep  a  tight  rein  upon 
you.  She  looks  that  sort.  But  I  don't  know  why  we 
should  be  talking  in  this  strain  the  first  time  we  have 


194  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

had  a  word  together  for — how  many  years  ?  Four  ? 
Five  ?  We  have  quickly  dropped  into  old  ways.  But 
then  you  were  a  fire-eater,  a  chartered  libertine,  inde- 
pendent, a  bird  of  freedom.  Whereas  now  —  my  poor 
friend  !  " 

"  By  George  !  "  cried  Thornton,  starting  forward,  with 
some  excitement  in  his  eyes  that  glowed  in  the  dimness, 
"  don't  fall  into  any  delusion.  If  you  think  I  am  going 
the  way  of  another  poor  friend  of  ours  who  can't  call 
his  soul  his  own,  you  are  devilishly  mistaken.  I  married 
because  it  happened  to  strike  me  that  I  wanted  to  do  so. 
But  I  run  the  concern,  and  my  wife's  a  sensible  woman 
and  recognises  the  fact.  And  whatever  I  want  to  do  I 
am  going  to  do.  I  have  generally  done  it,  and  don't  see 
why  I  should  break  through  my  habit  now." 

"  And  your  wife  ?" 

"  How — my  wife  ? " 

"  Is  she  going  to  enjoy  a  beautiful  independence  like- 
wise ? " 

"  No.     It  isn't  good  for  women." 

"  Thank  you.  You  always  were  a  delicate  judge  in 
things  feminine.  Did  you  ever  read  '  As  You  Like  It '  ? 
'  Lock  the  door  on  your  wife's  wit  and  it  will  out  at  the 
casement.'  Have  a  care,  my  friend.  I  am  about  the 
only  woman  you  have  tried  to  make  a  fool  of  and  haven't 
succeeded,  and  so  you  perhaps  have  a  kind  of  respect 
for  my  intelligence,  and  I  give  you  warning." 

"  I  burned  some  of  your  letters  the  other  day,"  said 
Thornton  cynically. 

"  That  was  wise.  Suppose  we  go  in.  The  act  must 
be  about  commencing." 

The  curtain  was  already  up.  Major  Clavering  was 
scanning  the  house  drearily  through  a  pair  of  opera 
glasses.  Clytie  was  looking  at  the  stage  and  thinking 
of  her  husband,  wishing  he  would  come  in.  When  the 
door  behind  opened  she  turned  round,  and  with  an  eye 
trained  to  catch  fleeting  expression,  noticed  a  look  upon 
Thornton's  face, — the  after-light,  as  it  were,  of  a  sneer, 
before  the  features  had  time  to  reset, — that  she  had 
never  observed  there  before.  The  change  from  this  to 
his  usual  gay  smile  was  so  rapid  that  she  thought  she 
had  been  mistaken,  and  attributed  it  to  an  illusion  pro- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  195 

duced  by  the  shadow  at  the  back  of  the  box.  But  the 
impression  of  it  remained  and  it  was  unpleasant. 

During  the  next  entr'acte  the  men  went  out,  leaving 
Clytie  and  Mrs.  Clavering  alone  together.  Either 
through  the  mere  social  desire  to  please  or  through  a 
feeling  of  compassion  proceeding  from  conscious 
superiority,  the  elder  woman  sought  to  make  an  agree- 
able impression  upon  the  young  wife.  But  Clytie  had 
wrapped  herself  up  in  a  strange  veil  of  reserve  and  her 
attitude  was  unpropitiatory.  Mrs.  Clavering's  falsetto 
voice  struck  upon  her  nerves,  the  confident  air  of 
patronage  irritated  her.  She  longed  to  be  away  from 
the  heavy,  acrid  atmosphere,  the  artificiality  of  the  opera, 
the  society  of  Mrs.  Clavering.  She  felt  self-conscious, 
was  angry  with  herself.  She  had  the  keen  feminine 
sense  of  a  false  position  and  longed  for  extrication. 
She  was  glad  when  her  husband  and  Major  Clavering 
returned. 

"  I  have  been  telling  Mrs.  Hammerdyke  about  old 
times  in  Cairo,  and  singing  your  praises,"  said  Mrs. 
Clavering.  "  Are  you  not  grateful  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  flattered,"  said  Thornton  somewhat  ironically. 

"  That  is  always  the  way  to  make  a  man  grateful." 

"It  is  the  same  with  us.  I  don't  suppose  there  is 
much  difference  in  that  respect  between  men  and 
women,"  said  Clytie,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

**  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Clavering  ; 
"women  can  generally  sift  the  grain  from  the  chaff — 
only,  poor  things,  they  too  often  take  the  chaff  by  prefer- 
ence." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  alluding  to  me,  my  dear,"  said 
the  major,  who  was  given  to  saying  stupid  things  by 
way  of  showing  that  he  followed  the  thread  of  his  wife's 
conversation. 

Thornton  chimed  in  with  his  deep  laugh. 

"  That  is  one  for  you,  Clavering.  Perhaps  one  for  me 
too.  Anyhow,  the  curtain  is  going  up  and  that  saves  us. 
Make  room  for  me  by  you,  Clytie,  and  tell  me  about 
what's  going  on." 

He  edged  in  his  chair  between  Clytie  and  Mrs.  Claver- 
ing. The  major  lounged  behind,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  very  much  bored.  He  was  hoping  to  escape  soon. 


ig6  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Are  you  enjoying  it  ? "  whispered  Thornton  to 
Clyde. 

"  Moderately.  It  is  a  dull  opera.  And  it  is  so 
unbearably  hot." 

"  It  is  not  entrancingly  interesting.  Would  you  like  to 
clear  out  after  this  act  ?  I  should." 

"  And  the  Claverings  ?  " 

"They  are  a  bit  tired  of  it.  Shall  we  all  go  back 
together  to  the  hotel  and  have  supper? " 

"  I'd  sooner  we  were  alone  together,  Thornton  dear — 
this  evening." 

He  made  a  little  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  Of  course  we  won't  ask  them  if  you  don't  want  to. 
But  then  we  must  stay  this  thing  out." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  the  mass  of 
heads  in  the  opposite  tiers,  vague  in  the  dimness,  and 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  rails  of  his  chair. 

"  Sh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Clavering.  "  That's  one  of  your 
old  tricks.  You  never  seem  to  think  that  people  have 
nerves." 

Clytie  caught  the  words,  although  they  were  whispered. 
She  turned  her  head  round  quickly  and  stared  at  the 
stage  for  the  rest  of  the  act. 

When  it  was  over  Mrs.  Clavering  solved  the  question 
of  departure. 

"  I  think  we  all  want  to  go,"  she  said,  rising.  "  My 
husband  is  suffering  acutely,  and  yours  I  know  is  not 
very  musical.  When  shall  we  see  you  again,  Mrs.  Ham- 
merdyke  ?  Will  you  come  and  dine  with  us  some  even- 
ing, quietly — when  we  can  talk  better  ?  I'll  let  you  know 
what  evenings  we  are  free.  Will  that  do  ?  That  is  your 
wife's  cloak,  not  mine,  Mr.  Hammerdyke." 

A  few  minutes  later  Thornton  and  Clytie  were  driving 
back  to  their  hotel  in  the  pleasant  Paris  victoria.  It 
seemed  a  superb  night.  A  slight  breeze  had  risen,  and 
the  leaves  in  the  Champs  Elyse"es  rustled  pleasantly. 
Clytie  leaned  back  with  a  sense  of  relief,  physical  and 
moral.  They  had  both  been  rather  silent  since  they  left 
the  opera  house. 

"  Don't  let  us  go  in,"  said  Clytie  suddenly.  "  Let  us 
drive  about  a  little,  along  the  quays — anywhere." 

"  I  was  just  going  to  suggest  it,"  said  Thornton. 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  197 

He  gave  the  order  to  the  coachman,  who  turned  back 
through  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  took  them  past 
the  Tuileries  and  the  great  mass  of  the  Louvre  and 
along  the  quays  in  the  direction  of  Auteuil. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  Clavering  woman?  "  asked 
Thornton.  "  Not  much,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  like  her.  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to 
say  it,  as  she  is  a  friend  of  yours,  but — she  doesn't 
please  me." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  that  she  does  me  now.  She  never 
was  a  beauty,  but  she  has  sadly  fallen  off  the  last  few 
years.  She  thinks  herself  so  deuced  superior.  And  she 
isn't,  by  Jove  !  Still  she  is  amusing,  you  know,  and 
that  is  a  quality  that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  But 
other  women  can't  understand  her.  She  was  loathed 
by  them  all  in  Cairo,  so  you  are  not  alone  in  your 
antipathy." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Thornton  drew  her  closer 
to  his  side  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  Clytie  felt  some- 
what hurt.  It  was  not  flattering  to  be  grouped  with  the 
other  women  in  Cairo,  however  estimable  they  may  have 
been  in  their  non-appreciation  of  Mrs.  Clavering.  They 
drove  on,  and  began  to  talk  of  different  subjects,  dis- 
connectedly, without  much  interest.  Finally  Thornton 
came  back  to  the  Claverings. 

"  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you'll  dine  with  them,  as  they 
were  civil  enough  to  ask  us." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it  and  it  gives  you  any 
pleasure.  Perhaps  I  may  like  her  better  when  I  know 
more  of  her." 

"  You  see,  you  can't  drop  people  because  you  don't 
happen  to  take  a  violent  fancy  to  them,"  he  said  rather 
lamely.  And  then  he  added  : 

"  I  wish  you  had  let  me  ask  them  to  supper." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  It  would  have  livened  us  up  a  little." 

"  Perhaps  it  would,"  answered  Clytie  almost  wearily. 
"  I  half  wish  you  had." 

The  evanescent  charm  had  gone  from  the  drive.  The 
weather,  too,  had  changed.  Clouds,  that  had  impercep- 
tibly gathered,  covered  the  moon.  The  quay  looked 
desolate,  the  water  black  and  lifeless,  on  the  other  side 


198  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  great  buildings  loomed  forbidding  in  the  darkness. 
An  air  of  disenchantment  was  over  all  things. 

"  Will  monsieur  turn  back  ?  It  is  going  to  rain,"  said 
the  cabman,  lounging  sideways  and  looking  down  at 
them. 

They  turned  off  through  the  narrow  streets,  on  the 
nearest  way  back  to  the  hotel.  The  cab  horse  was  tired 
and  jogged  on  painfully,  indifferent  to  the  loud-cracking 
whip  and  the  "  huh  "  addressed  to  him  in  the  driver's 
raucous  voice.  Clytie  shivered  a  little  at  the  sudden 
fall  in  the  temperature.  She  was  chilled  too — ever  so 
little — at  her  heart.  She  drew  away  slightly  from  her 
husband,  who  held  her  hand  mechanically.  When  she 
withdrew  it  he  did  not  seem  to  notice.  He  had  dis- 
covered that  he  was  annoyed  about  the  supper. 

Suddenly  the  horse,  overdriven,  stumbled,  tried  to 
recover  himself,  and  then  crashed  down  helpless,  snapping 
the  shaft.  The  victoria  lurched  violently  on  the  side 
where  Clytie  was  sitting.  To  save  herself  she  jumped 
out  quickly,  but  her  foot  slipped  on  the  kerb  and  she 
nearly  fell.  Thornton  sprang  out  and  raised  her,  and  then 
turned  to  the  coachman  in  a  sudden  frenzy  of  passion. 
He  stood  there  moving  his  arms  about  and  cursed  him 
in  English.  Clytie  was  shocked  to  the  heart.  She  was 
thankful  that  she  could  see  his  face  but  dimly  in  the  bad 
gaslight.  The  cabman  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he 
bent  down  to  loosen  the  traces.  Some  people  came  up, 
chiefly  from  a  small  brasserie  whose  few  tables  were  just 
visible  some  yards  further  along  the  street.  Another 
cab  arrived  and  paused,  interested  and  expectant,  watch- 
ing the  scene  :  the  little  group  round  the  fallen  horse  ; 
the  stately  figure  of  the  girl  in  white  dress  and  rich  opera- 
cloak  standing  by  the  upset  cab  ;  the  great  figure  of  the 
man,  stamping  with  rage,  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of 
oaths.  It  all  happened  very  quickly. 

Clytie  touched  her  husband's  arm  quietly. 

"  Stop,  Thornton,"  she  said.  "  He  does  not  even 
understand  you." 

Thornton  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  then  at  the 
group.  Then  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  pulled  a  ten- 
franc  piece  from  his  pocket  and  threw  it  to  the  cabman, 
who  picked  it  up  with  an  ironical,  "  Merd,  bourgeois." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  199 

They  entered  the  other  cab  and  drove  quickly  home- 
wards. Thornton  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  rage, 
for  he  laughed  in  high  spirits  over  the  incident.  He 
apologised  gaily  for  his  loss  of  temper  and  language. 
He  was  still  infected  with  his  years  of  savagery,  he 
pleaded.  He  had  been  so  accustomed  to  rule  men  by 
terror  that  he  forgot  himself  sometimes.  Often  he  had 
been  the  only  white  man  among  hundreds  of  fierce,  law- 
less savages,  over  whom  he  had  despotic  authority  of  life 
and  death.  If  they  had  not  feared  his  rage  and  violence, 
his  life  would  not  have  been  worth  a  moment's  purchase. 

He  had  regained  his  old  manner,  the  daring  personal 
charm  that  had  swept  her  along  in  spite  of  herself  into 
marrying  him.  The  glamour  of  his  fame,  his  power,  his 
heroism  came  over  her  and  hid  the  sordid  scenes  of  the 
evening.  When  they  reached  the  hotel  they  were  lovers 
once  more. 

As  Clytie  alighted  from  the  cab  her  foot  gave  way 
beneath  her.  It  had  been  hurting  her  since  her  slip  on 
the  kerb,  but  she  had  scarcely  noticed  the  pain.  Now 
she  found  that  she  could  not  walk.  She  had  sprained 
her  ankle.  She  limped  into  the  hotel  with  Thornton's 
aid.  Then  she  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  looked 
at  them  helplessly.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  hotel,  with- 
out a  lift,  and  their  rooms  were  on  the  third  story. 

"  I'll  carry  you  up,"  said  Thornton. 

He  took  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  mounted  the  stairs 
with  a  step  as  light  and  springy  as  if  he  had  no  burden 
to  carry.  Until  then  Clytie  had  not  realised  his  marvel- 
lous strength. 

"  I  feel  like  the  fairy  princess  being  carried  off  by  the 
giant,"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

CLYTIE  was  confined  several  days  to  her  room  through 
her  sprained  ankle.  It  was  not  an  unqualified  affliction, 
as  it  solved  the  question  of  her  dining  with  the  Claver- 
ings.  Thornton  went  alone,  carrying  with  him  his  wife's 
excuses  and  regrets,  and  returned  to  her  in  high  spirits. 
When  she  was  able  to  get  about  again  the  Claverings 
had  left  Paris  for  Homburg,  where  they  were  going  to 
stay  for  a  few  weeks.  "  And  when  they  return  to  Lon- 
don we  can  see  just  as  much  or  as  little  of  them  as  we 
like,"  said  Thornton. 

The  forced  confinement  also  brought  Clytie  a  little 
more  solitude  than  usual.  Thornton  found  a  race 
meeting  or  two  to  go  to,  and  a  nominally  bachelor 
supper  party,  and  he  laughed,  in  his  gay  manner,  at  this 
resumption  of  bachelor  habits.  Clytie  was  rather  glad, 
on  the  whole,  to  be  left  to  her  own  society  for  a  little. 
She  was  gradually  awakening  from  the  dream,  realising 
herself.  Very  often  in  the  ordinary,  sober  moments  of  life 
Thornton  jarred  upon  her.  His  absence  often  was  a 
relief.  She  hated  herself  when  this  unwelcome  and 
unbidden  thought  came  into  her  mind  ;  but  it  came  for  all 
her  hating.  The  sprained  ankle  marked  definitely  the 
end  of  this  second  or  false  honeymoon  in  Paris,  whose 
glamour  was  the  lingering  twilight  glow  of  the  real  one  in 
Bordighera.  It  was  then  that  Clytie  first  thought  of  the 
railway  journey  as  a  landmark.  After  her  recovery 
Thornton  continued  his  bachelor  habits  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  discontinued 
his  playful  apologies.  Still  he  took  Clytie  whitherso- 
ever she  expressed  a  desire  to  go,  and  gladly,  proud 
of  having  his  beautiful  wife  by  his  side.  Only,  if  she 
elected  to  remain  at  home,  he  went  out  equally  cheer- 
fully by  himself. 

Occasionally  they  drove  in  the  Bois  in  a  neat  phaeton 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  2OI 

and  pair  which  he  hired  for  her  from  a  livery-stable, 
and  he  would  point  out  to  her  the  celebrities  whom 
they  passed  by.  Some  of  these  she  had  herself  met 
or  seen  at  the  various  social  functions  to  which  they 
had  received  invitations.  They  themselves,  too,  had 
become  known  and  were  pointed  out  with  some  curi- 
osity,— le  beau  couple,  as  the  phrase  went, — even  by 
those  who  were  unacquainted  with  their  name  or 
position.  Thornton  was  always  in  his  gayest  humour 
on  these  occasions  as  he  sat  by  his  wife's  side  and 
guided  his  pair  through  the  crush  of  magnificent  equi- 
pages ;  and  she  felt  glad  too  and  elated,  pleased  by  the 
vivid  flashes  of  colouring  in  dresses  and  parasols,  and  the 
vague  perfumes  that  filled  the  air,  and  the  half-caught 
scraps  of  conversation  and  laughter.  Her  girlish  delight 
at  the  gladness  of  life  came  back  to  her  fresh  and 
untainted.  She  indulged  her  old  habit  of  speculation 
on  the  life  that  lay  beneath  individual  faces,  which  she 
stored  up  in  her  memory  for  rapid  sketching  when  at 
leisure,  and  she  would  draw  Thornton  into  her  vein,  and 
then  there  were  arguments  without  end.  These  were 
some  of  her  happiest  moments  in  Paris,  when  she 
recovered  her  old  self,  bright,  satirical,  paradoxical,  and 
felt  no  cold  hand  on  her  heart. 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  their  stay  in  Paris,  they 
had  drawn  up  in  the  block  of  carriages  by  the  side  of  the 
promenade.  The  sun  was  powerful,  and  the  glaring 
colours  in  the  carriages  contrasted  with  the  cool  tones  of 
white  and  gray  in  the  deep  shade  under  the  chestnut- 
trees.  Clytie  was  animatedly  observing  the  bright  scene 
when  her  eyes  met  those  of  a  woman,  quietly  though 
expensively  dressed,  seated  in  an  open  carriage  quite 
close  by.  For  a  moment  they  looked  at  one  another  in 
silent  inquiry,  and  then  came  a  flash  of  mutual  recogni- 
tion. It  was  the  girl  whom  Clytie  had  met  the  summer 
before  in  the  hotel  at  Dinan.  The  scene,  with  its  mingled 
associations  of  wonder  and  pity,  came  back  to  her,  and 
moved  by  a  strong  impulse  she  smiled  and  moved  her 
head  slightly.  A  look  of  eager  wonderment  came  over 
the  other's  face  as  she  returned  Clytie's  greeting.  And 
then  she  turned  quickly  away  to  talk  to  a  man  who  had 
just  come  up  to  the  side  of  the  carriage. 


202  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Confound  it,  Clytie  !  "  cried  Thornton,  setting  the 
horses  in  motion,  "  you  must  really  make  sure  who 
people  are  before  you  bow  to  them.  Do  you  know  who 
that  woman  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Clytie,  "  that  is  to  say,  I  know  what  she 
is.  I  don't  know  her  name." 

"  She  is  one  of  the  most  notorious  women  in  Paris, 
Loulou  Mendes.  You  mustn't  go  playing  the  fool  like 
this  !  What  did  you  bow  to  her  for  ?  " 

"  Because  I  know  her — a  little." 

"  You — know — her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Thornton  dear  ;  it  is  somewhat  of  a  story. 
I  met  her  accidentally  last  year  in  Dinan.  She  was  in 
trouble,  and  I  took  a  fancy  for  her,  and  seeing  her 
suddenly  here,  I  showed  her  that  I  recognised  her." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  you  won't  do  such  a  thing  again," 
he  said  shortly,  giving  a  vicious  cut  to  the  horses  that 
sent  them  spinning  down  the  all&.  "  And  please  to 
remember  that  you  are  not  an  amateur  Bohemian  any 
longer,  but  my  wife." 

"Oh,  Thornton,  you  mustn't  say  things  like  that  !  "  said 
Clytie,  with  a  queer  little  catch  at  her  throat.  "  They 
hurt  me  !  " 

"  Well,  you  mustn't  deserve  them,"  replied  Thornton. 
And  then,  mollifying  at  the  sight  of  her  distress :  "  You 
don't  understand  these  things,  little  wife." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  dear,"  said  Clytie.  "  Perhaps  it 
was  foolish  of  me.  I  ought  to  have  considered  you  ;  I 
didn't  think  of  it.  She  kissed  my  hand  the  last  time  I 
saw  her,  and  it  would  have  seemed  base  and  hypocritical 
to  have  cut  her  dead  to-day.  It  seemed  such  a  little 
matter.  Why  hurt  the  girl's  feelings  ?  That's  why  I 
did  it." 

"  Feelings?"  echoed  Thornton,  with  a  laugh.  "  Bah! 
my  good  child,  you  are  talking  nonsense.  She  put  her 
feelings  up  the  spout  years  ago  to  get  herself  champagne 
and  diamonds  and  the  rest  of  it.  With  her  soul  sold  to 
the  devil  and  her  body  to  men,  what  the  deuce  is  she 
going  to  do  with  feelings  ?  " 

"  What  I  saw  of  her  was  very  human,  Thornton.  And 
if  such  women  are  brutes,  it  is  men  who  make  them  so. 
If  men  were  only  kinder  and  tenderer " 


AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA.  203 

"  Like  the  sentimental  idiot  in  '  Jenny.'  That's  a  poem 
about  it,  you  know." 

"  Yes — Rossetti ;  I  am  very  fond  of  it,"  she  replied, 
with  a  half  smile,  wondering  somewhat  at  his  expla- 
nation. Then  she  added  :  "  But  surely  there's  humanity 
in  every  human  being." 

"  That's  a  very  sweet,  innocent  belief,  and  you  had 
better  keep  to  it,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  Thornton,  I'm  not  an  ignorant  little  schoolgirl," 
she  said,  with  hurt  vanity.  "  I  have  learned  something  of 
the  world.  Perhaps  I  have  been  too  eager  to  acquaint 
myself  with  things." 

"  Anyhow,  you  can't  know  much  about  them,"  he  re- 
plied shortly.  "  Leave  such  things  alone.  They  don't 
concern  you,  so  what's  the  good  of  prying  into  them  ?  " 

"  They  have  concerned  me,"  she  insisted.  "  Believe 
me,  Thornton,  it  was  something  deeper  than  ordinary 
morbid  curiosity  that  led  me  to  them." 

"  But  I  can't  see  what  the  deuce  the  Social  Question 
has  to  do  with  girls,"  he  said.  "  That  is  what  licks  me. 
What  the  dickens  has  it  got  to  do  with  your  life  ? " 

"  But  you  mistake,  Thornton,"  she  replied  eagerly, 
with  a  return  of  her  old  earnestness.  "  It  is  not  the 
Social  Question.  Indeed  not.  I  never  have  any  call  to 
look  at  things  in  that  aspect.  I  am  neither  a  sociologist 
nor  a  reformer.  I  am  an  artist.  I  have  to  express  certain 
truths  about  human  beings, — the  little  talent  I  have  lies 
entirely  that  way, — and  in  order  to  express  the  truths  I 
had  to  set  to  work  to  learn  them.  How  all  this  corrup- 
tion affects  society,  how  it  is  to  be  done  away  with  and 
so  on,  does  not  come  within  my  province.  But  to  get  to 
the  hearts  and  inner  feelings  of  individuals,  to  see  how 
society  affects  them,  what  justification  they  have  in  their 
struggle  with  it,  how  they  contemplate  life,  what  ele- 
ments of  emotion,  or  passion,  or  weariness,  or  what  not 
form  essential  parts  of  their  beings  that  do  not  form 
essential  parts  of  mine — to  try  to  do  that,  Thornton,  has 
been  my  business,  and,  till  I  knew  you,  was  the  dearest 
motive  of  my  life.  Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  And  when  you  have  done  it  what  good  will  it  do  to 
yourself  or  anybody  else  ?  " 

"  To  answer  you  I  should  have  to  appear  conceited. 


204  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

It  would  be  answering  the  question,  What  is  the  good  of 
art  at  all  ? " 

"  Well,  all  said  and  done,  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?  To 
make  pretty  and  amusing  things  to  look  at.  All  the  rest 
is  cant  and  humbug — including  your  desire  to  scrape 
acquaintance  with  loose  women  for  artistic  purposes. 
Look  here,  little  wife" — and  he  turned  round,  with  a  sharp 
smile  that  showed  his  white  teeth  more  than  usual — "  I 
didn't  fall  in  love  with  you  because  you  were  an  artist 
and  held  highfalutin'  theories  about  artistic  ideals  and  so 
forth,  but  because  you  were  the  woman  whose  loveliness 
appealed  tome  and  always  fascinated  me.  And  now  you 
are  my  wife  you  have  other  things  to  think  about." 

"  I  know  that,  Thornton,"  she  replied,  staring  a  little 
wistfully  in  front  of  her.  "  Tell  me.  What  is  our  new 
life  going  to  be  like  ?  You  speak  so  little  of  it  that  I 
scarcely  know." 

"  Oh  !  what's  the  good  of  worrying  yourself  about  it 
yet  ?  I'll  tell  you  when  the  time  comes.  You'll  have 
our  position  in  society  to  look  after,  keep  things  going 
straight  for  me  in  quarters  where  a  woman  can  wheedle 
out  more  in  an  hour  than  a  man  in  a  twelvemonth.  I 
have  definitely  taken  up  politics,  you  know.  Things 
were  settled  this  morning." 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?"  she  cried 
involuntarily. 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,  my  dear.  Well,  Hernshawe 
has  asked  me  whether  I  would  care  to  be  his  private 
secretary.  His  present  man  is  in  the  Civil  Service 
and  is  resigning  owing  to  some  office  promotion,  so  when 
the  House  meets  after  the  Whitsuntide  recess  Hernshawe 
will  be  free  to  take  me." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Clytie,  to  whom 
these  details  were  all  new.  She  was  vaguely  aware  that 
Thornton  had  intentions  of  aiming  at  a  parliamentary 
career,  but  as  he  had  volunteered  no  confidences,  she 
had  shrunk  from  soliciting  them. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  repeated,  "  why  you  should 
take  a  private-secretaryship.  You  want  to  enter  Parlia- 
ment." 

"  Of  course.  But  I  am  so  out  of  things  that  I  want 
to  get  into  training,  so  to  speak.  I  shall  be  this  session, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  205 

perhaps  next,  with  Hernshawe  and  learn  all  the  ropes, 
and  then  he  will  run  me  for  a  suitable  vacancy.  It  is  as 
simple  as  good-morning,  as  they  say  in  this  country.  I 
must  do  something,  and  politics  seem  about  the  only 
mildly  exciting  thing  to  go  in  for  in  this  severely  flat  and 
respectable  continent.  But  beyond  looking  after  the 
society  side  of  the  matter,  I  don't  see  why  you  need 
worry  your  pretty  head  about  it." 

"  Then  don't  you  want  me  to  become  a  bit  of  a  poli- 
tician, so  as  to  help  you,  and  understand  you  in  your 
career  ? " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  to  a  certain  extent,"  he  replied  with 
cheerful  offhandedness.  "  But  for  God's  sake,  my  dear 
child,  don't  become  a  political  woman.  If  there's  one 
kind  of  a  woman  I  bar  more  than  another,  its  the  female 
politician.  Of  course  you'll  have  to  go  round  canvass- 
ing for  votes  at  the  election,  and  to  humbug  people  in 
society,  but  all  that  is  rather  sport  than  otherwise?  Never 
mind,  little  wife  ;  you'll  have  a  ripping  good  time  in 
London  when  the  show  begins." 

He  laughed,  in  gay  good  humour  again.  Clytie  echoed 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Thornton,"  she  said  after  a  short  pause,  "  I  don't 
want  to  bother  you  about  politics  if  you  don't  like  it  " — 
she  felt  now  a  strange  hesitation  in  speaking  to  him — 
"  but  you  know  you'll  have  to  convert  me,  dear.  It  has 
been  on  my  mind  for  some  time.  You  are  a  Tory,  you 
know,  and  I  have  been  a  Radical  hitherto  in  feelings 
and  sympathies." 

He  burst  out  laughing  at  her  little  air  of  seriousness. 
Perhaps  if  he  had  known  how  he  hurt  her,  he  would 
not  have  treated  the  matter  so  cavalierly.  This  differ- 
ence in  political  views  had  been  a  question  of  some  con- 
cern to  Clytie,  who  was  aware  of  old-fashioned  Tory 
prejudices.  And  Thornton  took  her  Radicalism  as  a 
jest,  attributing  no  importance  to  the  difference  of 
opinion. 

"  You'll  change  when  we  get  back  and  become  a 
shining  light  in  the  Primrose  League." 

She  was  too  depressed  by  the  whole  of  the  forego- 
ing conversation  to  pursue  the  subject  any  further. 
Thornton  started  the  lighter  topic  of  personal  criticism 
14 


206  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

of  their  new  acquaintances  in  Paris,  and  rattled  on  in 
great  spirits.  He  had  forgotten  entirely  the  argu- 
ment that  Clyde's  somewhat  unconventional  action  had 
occasioned,  and  was  as  boyishly  gay  as  ever.  But  men 
forget  things  much  more  easily  than  women,  especially 
when  they  have  no  object  in  remembering,  nor  any  remi- 
niscent twinge  of  susceptibility. 

That  evening  Clytie  spent  alone.  Thornton  was  din- 
ing at  the  Caf£  des  Ambassadeurs  with  some  men  from 
the  Embassy.  He  had  kissed  her  before  he  started, 
called  himself  a  selfish  brute  for  condemning  her  to  a 
dull  evening,  and  went  away  humming  a  caf^-concert 
air.  She  did  not  mind  his  leaving  her,  took  it  now  as  a 
matter  of  course  that  each  should  be  to  a  certain  extent 
independent  of  the  other;  for  the  glamour  of  the  south 
had  departed,  and  the  practicalities  of  life  had  begun  to 
assert  themselves.  But  it  was  the  first  wretched  even- 
ing of  her  married  life.  She  would  have  liked  to  cry, 
but  as  she  was  not  of  those  who  cry  easily,  she  sat  with 
eyes  all  the  more  painful  for  being  strained  and  tearless. 
She  had  received  a  great  shock.  Ever  since  she  had 
rebelled  against  the  Durdleham  formula  that  men  were 
to  descend  from  their  intellectual  sublimity  when  they 
spoke  to  women,  lest  like  Semele  the  latter  should  be  con- 
sumed in  the  Jovian  blaze,  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
meet  men  freely  on  an  intellectual  level.  To  find  her- 
self in  a  society  where  this  particular  formula  was  un- 
known had  been  one  of  the  earliest  joys  of  her  emanci- 
pated life.  She  had  very  little  vanity  in  the  matter  of 
her  own  attainments,  but  she  took  it  for  granted  that  her 
associates  should  recognise  in  her  a  woman  of  ordinary 
culture,  capable  of  forming  rational  opinions.  Her 
intelligence  was  keen,  her  judgment  fine.  She  had  read, 
thought,  observed.  Her  art  was  to  a  certain  extent  a 
matter  of  intellect  as  well  as  of  instinctive  feeling,  and  in 
this  respect  had  been  stimulated  by  her  intercourse  with 
Kent.  In  the  glow  of  her  young,  ardent  nature  she  had 
committed  many  extravagances,  but  they  all  had  borne 
the  indubitable  stamp  of  a  mind  strenuous  in  its 
endeavours.  None  but  fools  had  ever  thought  of  con- 
descending to  Clytie  because  she  was  a  woman. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  she  was  coolly  shown  that 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  207 

she  was  a  woman,  that  her  opinions  were  not  worth  seri- 
ous consideration,  that  she  must  not  trouble  her  pretty 
head  about  things  that  were  too  deep  for  her.  And  by 
the  man,  above  all,  whose  life  she  shared.  They  were 
hours  of  dull,  dazed  humiliation  that  she  spent  alone 
that  evening  ;  hours  that  were  not  lost  even  in  the  pain 
of  her  after  life.  Over  the  absence  of  sympathy  with  her 
own  pursuits  she  was  only  a  little  regretful.  It  would 
have  been  nicer  if  Thornton  had  been  able  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  her  art.  But  she  was  too  large-natured  not 
to  be  able  to  bridge  over  this  small  gap  between  them. 
She  was  ready  to  sacrifice  her  art  entirely  to  her  love, 
was  eager  to  throw  herself  into  his  interests  and  ambi- 
tions. But  she  demanded  a  full,  vigorous  share.  To 
live  an  empty  life  was  with  her  an  impossibility.  And 
to  this  life  Thornton,  in  his  good-natured  contempt  for 
her  powers,  was  condemning  her.  She  was  puzzled, 
humiliated,  frightened. 

There  is  a  vague  mystery  of  woe  in  the  dawn  of  a 
dreary  day. 

Meanwhile  Thornton  was  enjoying  himself  amazingly. 
The  dinner  was  one  which,  as  Heine  says,  "  ought  to  be 
partaken  of  kneeling,"  and  the  wine  was  excellent ;  the 
party  well  chosen,  the  talk  essentially,  broadly  mascu- 
line. There  is  a  certain  type  of  man  whose  conversa- 
tion is  wholly  made  up  of  sport  in  its  various  aspects, 
women,  shop,  and  crude  personal  gossip — a  type  which 
numbers  its  tens  of  thousands  in  English  society.  It  can 
be  met  with,  to  utter  weariness  of  the  soul,  in  any 
heterogeneous  gathering  of  upper-  and  middle-class 
Britons.  They  are  God's  creatures,-  it  is  true  ;  many  of 
them  are  possessed  of  estimable  qualities,  some  of  them 
have  performed  deeds  of  heroism.  But  as  a  type  they 
are  a  glaring  satire  upon  the  vaunted  culture  and  refine- 
ment of  our  civilisation.  And  it  is  a  remarkable  thing 
how  little  their  power  and  influence  are  recognised  by 
writers  in  their  analysis  of  the  spirit  of  this  dying  nine- 
teenth century.  This  vast  overwhelming  type  does  not 
read,  does  not  think,  does  not  care  for  art  or  music,  has 
no  power  of  penetration  to  the  heart  of  delicate  things. 
It  is  dull,  brawny,  selfish,  and  a  pillar  of  the  Church  and 
State.  Its  main  subjective  characteristic  is  the  brutality 


208  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

of  its  views  concerning  women — varying  from  the  kindly 
disdain  of  its  highest  members  to  the  degraded  brutality 
of  its  lowest. 

Of  this  type,  with  all  his  physical  charm,  his  brilliant 
personality  and  splendid  capacities  for  action,  was 
Thornton  Hammerdyke.  The  man  whose  magnetism 
had  drawn  Clytie  irresistibly,  headlong  into  his  arms 
was  only,  after  all,  a  representative  of  this  ignoble, 
commonplace  order  of  men.  The  love  that  had  flooded 
Clytie's  being  with  wild  surging  tumult  was  only,  after 
all,  the  commonplace,  ignoble  passion  of  his  type. 
There  are  some  things  so  elementary  that  analysis 
quickly  comes  to  an  end.  Put  in  a  strip  of  litmus  paper 
and  it  is  done. 

He  was  honestly  glad  to  be  free  of  Clytie.  With  un- 
conscious cynicism  he  never  sought  to  disguise  it  from 
himself.  With  Carteret  of  the  Hussars  and  Swithin  and 
Holyoake  of  the  Embassy  he  was  in  his  proper  sphere. 
They  were  of  the  type.  He  had  interests  in  common 
with  them.  The  fact  that  he  was  a  man  of  high  dis- 
tinction was  neither  here  nor  there.  Over  the  fish  and 
entries  they  talked  of  racing  and  shooting  ;  over  the 
game  they  wandered  along  the  upper  galleries  of  'the 
Cloaca  Maxima  of  Paris;  over  the  peaches  and  Chateau- 
Mouton  they  told  foul  stories.  An  ignoble,  commonplace 
dinner  party. 

And  Clytie  was  alone  in  her  room  at  the  hotel  staring 
at  an  unknown  future. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE  last  three  days  of  their  stay  in  Paris  were  marked 
by  a  return  on  the  part  of  Thornton  to  his  old  devotion. 
He  declined  invitations  ruthlessly,  spent  almost  the 
whole  of  his  time  with  his  wife.  In  all  outward  and 
visible  signs  they  were  lovers  again,  but  the  inward  and 
spiritual  grace  was  a  bit  vapoury.  They  went  on  excur- 
sions together,  to  Fontainebleau,  Melun,  Passy.  One 
day  they  wandered  about  the  forest  of  Vincennes  and 
he  kissed  her  beneath  the  trees  as  he  used  to  do  at 
Bordighera.  They  had  gay,  laughing  meals  together  at 
little  riverside  restaurants.  He  was  passionate  in  his 
expressions  of  endearment  and  in  his  delight  at  her 
beauty.  With  the  negative  tact  of  passion,  he  avoided 
all  subjects  that  could  jar  upon  her.  For  three  days  he 
was  the  Thornton  of  their  honeymoon. 

Clytie  at  first  could  not  understand  this  sudden 
change.  She  asked  him  the  reason  tremulously. 

"  Can't  you  see,  you  silly  girl,"  he  replied  with  master- 
ful frankness,  "  that  I  love  you  and  we  have  only  three 
more  days'  idleness  ?  " 

And  then  she  let  the  spell  come  over  her  again  and 
surrendered  herself  to  his  mood.  But  now,  instead  of 
entering  with  spontaneous  joy  a  world  of  laughter  whose 
magic  gates  lay  open  before  her,  she  crossed  the  thres- 
hold with  deliberate  step.  She  had  to  choose  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry.  She  was  young,  she  wanted  to  love  her 
husband  ;  so  she  chose  to  laugh.  It  was  an  act  of 
reason.  But  woe  to  love  when  reason  has  to  find  its 
argument  ! 

By  Whitsuntide  they  were  in  London,  installed  in 
their  house  in  the  Cromwell  Road.  The  three  days' 
passion  had  cooled  down,  and  the  atmosphere  was  colder 
than  before.  But  Clytie  for  several  weeks  was  so  busy 
that  she  had  not  time  for  much  consideration  of  trou- 

809 


210  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

bling  questions.  First,  the  house  required  her  attention. 
There  was  much  supplementary  furniture  to  be  chosen, 
many  minor  schemes  of  decoration  to  be  carried  out  ii\ 
accordance  with  her  own  artistic  tastes. 

Thornton  gave  her  a  free  hand  in  these  matters,  and, 
beyond  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  house  should  be 
fitly  arranged,  never  troubled  himself  about  details. 
He  attended  two  or  three  picture  sales  with  Clytie, 
where  he  bought  a  few  pictures  on  her  recommen- 
dation, ordered  some  great  leather  armchairs  for  his 
smoking-room,  and  then  transferred  his  attention  to 
concerns  of  more  serious  interest.  So  Clytie,  left  un- 
hampered, succeeded  in  arranging  the  house  to  her  own 
satisfaction.  This  occupied  a  great  portion  of  her  time  ; 
the  rest  was  almost  entirely  devoted  to  her  social  duties. 

She  found  herself  in  some  small  position  in  society,  as 
the  artistic  wife  of  a  distinguished  soldier  of  fortune 
with  a  considerable  income,  and  it  was  Thornton's  special 
ambition  for  the  time  being  that  this  position  should  be 
maintained  and  secured,  in  furtherance  of  his  own  per- 
sonal projects.  Whilst  contemplating  marriage,  or  rather 
after  he  had,  in  his  fierce  impetuous  way,  decided  upon 
it,  he  had  sought  around  after  some  practical  interest  in 
his  new  life.  He  had  forsworn  Africa,  with  a  virtuous 
sense  of  self-sacrifice.  What  remained  worthy  of  a  man's 
serious  attention  ?  He  did  not  consult  Clytie.  It 
scarcely  occurred  to  him  that  the  subject  concerned  her. 
Of  the  few  careers  that  presented  themselves  he  selected 
two,  the  turf  and  politics,  and  wavered  for  some  time  in 
his  choice.  At  last  he  tossed  up  for  it,  as  he  had  often 
done  at  the  fork  of  two  paths  in  the  forest.  The  coin 
came  down  with  the  Queen's  head  uppermost — and  that 
meant  politics.  He  was  a  Tory  of  the  fiercer  school. 
Even  if  family  and  professional  tradition  had  not  influ- 
enced him,  a  lengthy  course  of  despotic  authority  enforced 
by  the  halter  and  the  butt  end  of  a  musket  is  not  favour- 
able to  the  cultivation  of  Liberal  suavities  and  amen- 
ities. And  again,  the  "type"  is  almost  always  Tory.  He 
was  even  out  of  touch  with  the  broader  Conservativism 
of  our  day,  between  which  and  modern  Liberalism  he 
failed  to  appreciate  the  distinction.  In  fact  his  political 
ideals,  such  as  they  were,  belonged  to  the  beginning 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  211 

instead  of  the  end  of  the  century,  but  he  expressed  them 
with  a  fervour  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  their  genuineness. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  setting  at  work  the  machinery 
of  social  influence,  and  the  result  was  the  offer  of  a  pri- 
vate-secretaryship on  the  part  of  an  under-secretary 
of  state.  He  accepted  it.  It  would  not  only  afford  him 
an  insight  into  the  practical  working  of  politics,  but 
would  give  him  an  opportunity  of  making  himself  known 
to  the  chiefs  of  the  Conservative  party  and  securing  their 
influence  when  he  should  seek  to  enter  Parliament. 
When  everything  was  settled  he  informed  Clytie  casually 
in  Paris  of  his  new  ambitions.  She,  too,  had  wondered 
what  outlet  this  man  of  restless  action  would  find  for  his 
energies,  and,  shrinking  from  inquiry,  had  been  filled 
with  vague  uneasiness.  Now  she  felt  that  he  had  made 
a  worthy  choice  and  in  spite  of  dubious  encouragement 
strove  to  identify  herself  with  his  interests.  True,  she 
contemplated  with  a  little  dismay  the  abandonment  of 
her  own  pet  social  theories,  which  tended  towards  an 
advanced  and  somewhat  inchoate  Radicalism,  and  the 
espousal  of  a  cause  forming  part  of  a  scheme  of  life 
against  which  she  had  so  passionately  rebelled.  But  she 
wilfully,  almost  desperately,  shut  her  eyes  against  all 
this.  She  would  give  her  heart  and  soul  to  Thornton's 
glory,  and  the  sacrifice  of  principle  on  her  part  would 
only  accentuate  the  triumph.  But  this  sacrifice  Thorn- 
ton did  not  concern  himself  to  realise.  Very  few  men 
ever  do.  As  we  have  seen,  he  laughed  at  it. 

He  entered  upon  his  political  duties  as  soon  as  they 
returned  to  London,  led  a  busy  life  of  work  and  pleasure, 
throwing  into  both  the  energy  of  his  strong  vitality.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  wait.  Social  position,  power,  must  be 
wrested  from  the  world  by  force  of  arms.  The  sooner 
the  struggle  began  and  the  fiercer  it  was  fought  the  sooner 
would  come  success.  It  behoved  Clytie,  therefore,  to 
enter  upon  it  with  him  at  once.  Before  she  could  real- 
ise herself  as  mistress  of  a  large  house,  as  cut  off  from 
the  old  habits  that  had  invested  London  with  earnest 
charm,  as  sundered  from  Kent  and  Winifred,  as  deprived 
of  her  art  and  her  dreams  and  ambition,  she  found  her- 
self caught  up  in  the  whirl  of  London  society,  bidden  to 
cultivate  its  conventions,  flatter.its  weaknesses,  intrigue, 


212  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

gossip,  dance,  drive,  rush,  without  a  moment's  pause  to 
think. 

And  thus  began  her  new  life.  It  was  not  the  one  she 
had  dreamed  of.  In  fact  she  hardly  recognised  herself 
in  her  deliberate  subordination  to  a  nature  dominating 
hers.  She  let  herself  drift,  abandoning  herself  to  the 
current,  clutching  hold  of  her  love  towards  her  husband 
as  the  only  plank  saving  her  from  destruction. 

Winifred  she  saw  occasionally.  She  had  no  time  for 
anything  beyond  a  half  hour's  gossip,  and  then  she 
forgot  her  own  hopes  and  fears  in  the  happiness  of  her 
friend,  who  had  just  become  engaged  to  Treherne.  She 
saw  nothing  of  Kent.  A  feeling  she  could  not  analyse 
restrained  her  from  writing  to  him,  ever  so  formally.  It 
was  analogous  to  the  whimsical  shrinking  from  sketching 
his  portrait  when  she  had  first  met  him.  She  heard  of 
him,  however,  through  Winifred.  He  came  down  to  the 
studio  still  occasionally,  and  chatted  over  the  teacups — 
"  chiefly  about  you,  dear,"  said  Winifred,  "  and  the  old 
days  and  your  present  life." 

"And  is  he  changed  at  all?"  asked  Clytie.  "It 
seems  centuries  since  those  same  old  days.  I  feel  almost 
like  asking  whether  he  has  a  gray  head  and  carries  his 
years  well  !  " 

"  It  does  seem  a  long  time,"  said  Winifred  reflectively. 
"  But  it  really  isn't,  you  know,  and  Kent  is  just  the  same 
as  ever.  His  trip  abroad  has  done  him  so  much  good. 
Do  you  know,  dear,  except  Victor — and  Mr.  Hammer- 
dyke,  of  course — I  think  he  is  the  best  man  in  all  the 
world." 

Her  brown  cheeks  flushed  as  she  spoke,  and  Clytie 
bent  down  and  kissed  them. 

"  Oh,  Winnie  darling,  I  wish  everybody  were  as  true 
and  loyal  as  you,"  she  said. 

A  great  sob  was  in  her  heart,  and  she  would  have  given 
much  to  have  buried  her  face  in  Winnie's  lap  and  let  the 
tears  come  how  they  would.  But  she  mastered  herself, 
and  before  the  other  had  time  to  hear  the  echo  of  the 
chord  that  was  struck  she  went  on  : 

"Tell  me,  Winnie,  how  is  his  great  work  getting  on  ?  " 

"  Rapidly,  I  believe,"  answered  Winifred.  "  He 
seems  to  have  nothing  else  to  live  for  now.  I  think  he 


AT  THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  213 

misses  you,  dear,  and  plunges  into  it  as  a  kind  of  conso- 
lation. He  has  had  a  great  compliment  paid  him — have 

you  heard  ?  He  met  a  great  Austrian  scientist,  Herr 

I  can't  remember  his  name — it  doesn't  matter.  Any- 
how, he  showed  this  professor  his  work,  and  talked  to 
him  about  the  difficulties  of  publishing,  expense,  and  all 
that,  and  a  few  days  ago  he  received  an  offer  from  the 
University  of  Vienna  to  translate  what  was  already  done 
into  German  and  publish  it  there.  He  says  it  is  a  most 
distinguished  honour." 

"I  am  so  glad,  dear,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  feel  proud  of 
him,  and  I  wish  I  could  see  him — to  give  him  my  con- 
gratulations. You  will  tell  him  that  I  asked  after  him, 
won't  you,  Winnie?" 

"  Why,  of  course  !  "  said  Winifred.  "  Don't  we  al- 
ways talk  of  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Blather  was  anxious  that  Clytie  and  her  husband 
should  come  to  Durdleham  to  stay  there  after  the  season 
in  town  was  over.  But  Clytie  replied  evasively  to  the 
affectionate  invitation.  She  shrank  from  Durdleham 
even  more  than  from  herself.  Mrs.  Blather,  now  that 
the  soreness  as  regards  the  wedding  had  worn  off,  was 
delighted  at  the  brilliant  match — just  the  very  marriage 
one  could  have  wished  for  Clytie,  as  she  remarked  over 
the  Durdleham  tea  tables.  Besides,  it  was  definite  set- 
tling down  for  Clytie,  saving  them  from  that  shadow  of 
scandal  that  had  always  seemed  liable  to  be  cast  over 
them  through  her  unprincipled  behaviour.  There  were 
no  longer  any  fears.  And  Mrs.  Blather  had  her  own  little 
triumph  in  another  way.  She  remembered  now  she  had 
prophesied  years  ago  that  Clytie's  desire  to  live  her  art 
life  in  London  was  a  craze  that  would  not  last  long — like 
Janet's  transient  enthusiasm  for  cookery  classes.  Both 
Janet  and  herself  took  it  for  granted  that  Clytie  viewed 
her  past  errors  with  the  same  indulgent  retrospective 
smile,  and  wrote  her  complacent  letters  based  on  this 
assumption.  And  Clytie  found  it  harder  than  ever  to 
write  to  them  naturally,  to  answer  these  letters  in  the 
same  tone.  If  her  sisters  had  failed  to  understand  her 
when  to  her  her  young,  earnest  self  was  brightly  intelli- 
gible, how  could  they  do  it  now  when  she  saw  herself 


214  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

vaguely,  dimly,  wrapped  in  impenetrable  vapours  ?  A 
visit  to  Durdleham,  under  the  circumstances,  seemed 
almost  an  ordeal.  Yet  Thornton's  presence  there  might 
make  some  difference. 

She  spoke  to  him  very  little  on  the  subject.  He 
broached  it  himself  one  day  at  breakfast,  almost  the  only 
time  now,  except  late  at  night,  that  she  saw  him  alone. 
It  was  nearing  the  end  of  July  and  the  session  of  Parlia- 
ment was  on  the  eve  of  closing. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  see  your  people,  Clytie  ? "  he 
asked,  looking  over  his  paper. 

"  I  thought  I  had  told  you.  They  want  us  to  come 
for  a  week  as  soon  as  we  can  leave  town." 

"Us?" 

"  Yes  ;  won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  thanks.  It  would  not  suit  me  at  all.  You 
go  and  make  an  excuse  for  me." 

"  Things  are  not  gay  there,  I  know,"  said  Clytie,  "  but 
I  should  like  you  to  come  with  me." 

"  It  can't  be  done,  my  dear,"  replied  Thornton.  "  You 
had  better  have  a  quiet  time  there  by  yourself,  while  I 
go  up  to  Scotland " 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  liked  me  to  go  to  Scot- 
land with  you — we  have  seen  so  little  of  each  other 
lately.  You  don't  want  to  stay  up  there  all  the  autumn 
without  me  ?"  she  added  half  pathetically. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Clytie,  you  can  come  if  you  like,"  said 
her  husband,  drawing  back  his  chair  from  the  table. 
"  Only  you  won't  find  much  fun  in  a  little  shooting-box 
in  the  middle  of  a  glen  in  the  Highlands.  Look  :  you  go 
and  see  your  people  for  a  month,  and  then,  if  you  like, 
you  can  come  and  join  me  there — that  is  to  say,  if  Car- 
teret  has  any  of  his  women  folks  staying  in  the  house, 
which  does  not  seem  to  be  quite  settled  yet.  If  he 
hasn't,  naturally  you  can't  come." 

"  In  that  case  I  shall  not  go  to  Durdleham — I  couldn't. 
You  would  not  understand  why.  I  shall  stay  in  London, 
and  mind  the  house." 

"  I  should  not  like  you  to  do  that,"  said  Thornton. 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  Because  I  had  rather  you  did  not,"  he  repeated,  with 
a  gathering  frown. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  215 

"How  long  do  you  contemplate  being  away  ?"  asked 
Clytie  quietly. 

"August  and  September,  perhaps — I  can't  quite  tell 
yet." 

"  Do  you  propose,  then,  that  I  should  go  and  stay  in 
Durdleham  for  two  months  with  my  people  ?" 

He  had  not  contemplated  it,  but  he  was  irritated  at 
her  show  of  opposition.  He  lost  his  temper  and  said 
sharply  : 

"  Yes.  Or  with  any  other  friends  you  like.  I  am 
not  going  to  have  you  remain  here  all  by  yourself." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  reasons,  Thornton  ? "  asked 
Clytie. 

He  crumpled  up  his  paper  angrily  and  thumped  it  on 
the  table.  The  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  out.  His 
face  grew  ugly. 

"  When  I  say  a  thing  is  to  be  done  I  mean  it,"  he 
cried,  "  and  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  asked  for  my 
reasons  !  " 

"  I  shall  leave  jou  until  you  have  recovered  yourself," 
said  Clytie  with  dignity,  and  she  left  the  room. 

This  was  the  first  real  quarrel  between  them.  The 
blood  had  often  rushed  hot  through  Clyde's  veins  and 
set  her  pulses  tingling,  but  hitherto  she  had  restrained 
herself,  feeling  that  the  first  revolt  would  mark  the  be- 
ginning of  the  end. 

She  passed  a  miserable  day.  When  Thornton  came 
home  in  the  afternoon  to  dress  for  dinner  he  was  in  one 
of  his  light-hearted  moods.  He  had  backed  an  outsider 
some  weeks  back  at  very  long  odds.  The  race  had  been 
run  that  day  and  the  outsider  had  won,  bringing  him  a 
couple  of  thousand  pounds — a  windfall  that  relieved 
him  of  certain  temporary  embarrassments.  Hence  his 
buoyancy  that  afternoon.  He  had  apparently  forgotten 
the  morning's  difference,  and  called  Clytie  "little  wife  " 
again,  and  promised  her  a  victoria  to  supplement  the 
modest  brougham  with  which  they  had  begun.  He  put 
his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her,  praised  her  beautiful 
hair,  the  roundness  of  her  arms,  her  dress.  He  told 
her  the  gossip  of  the  day  in  his  bright  off-hand  manner, 
made  her  laugh  in  spite  of  her  weariness.  But  when  he 
kissed  her  she  shrank  a  little.  In  the  elation  of  his 


216  AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

victory  he  did  not  notice  her  lack  of  responsiveness  ; 
besides,  he  was  not  over-sensitive  at  any  time.  When 
they  returned  home  at  night  from  the  dinner-party  to 
which  they  had  gone  together,  Thornton  was  still  in 
pleasant  mood.  Nothing  more  was  said  respecting  the 
plans  for  August  and  September. 

The  reconciliation  did  not  last  long.  Clytie  strove 
with  an  earnestness  that  was  torture  to  keep  the  peace 
between  them,  but  sometimes  her  nature  clamoured 
within  her  and  broke  out  in  self-assertion.  Only  four 
months  married,  and  already  the  breach  between  them 
was  perceptible,  slowly  widening.  And  it  was  Clytie 
that  drifted  away  from  her  husband.  If  she  had  been  a 
lesser  nature,  she  might  have  retained  the  love  on  both 
sides.  A  woman  of  a  lower  type  would  have  been  able 
to  flatter,  soothe,  cajole,  yield,  and  thus  have  kept  Thorn- 
ton at  her  feet.  The  patronising  contempt  for  her  own 
needs,  which  lashed  Clytie  to  the  soul,  she  would  have 
treated  lightly,  as  the  natural  and  foolish  vanity  of  the 
superior  being  ;  and  she  would  have  found  in  a  sud- 
den demonstration  of  passion  full  compensation  for  pre- 
vious indifference.  But  Clytie  was  not  only  unversed 
herself  in  the  arts  of  seduction,  but  despised  them 
fiercely  in  other  women.  And  she  began  also  to 
dread  Thornton's  fits  of  affection  as  much  as  his  fits 
of  anger. 

He  left  her  one  morning  quivering  with  mortification 
and  suppressed  bitterness.  He  himself  was  not  con- 
scious of  the  slight  he  had  inflicted,  and  he  went  away 
in  gay  spirits.  Their  talk  had  turned  upon  a  Cabinet 
Minister  named  Godderich,  whose  influence  Thornton 
was  anxious  to  acquire.  Now  it  had  so  happened  that 
this  same  Godderich  had  succeeded  in  making  himself 
vastly  obnoxious  to  Clytie.  She  told  her  husband  this, 
giving  him  the  reasons. 

"  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  that  kind  of  admira- 
tion," she  said,  "  and  I  don't  like  it." 

But  Thornton  laughed  his  great  laugh,  called  her  "  his 
unconventional  prude,"  and  went  on  to  show  her  what  an 
invaluable  ally  Godderich  was. 

"  You  must  swallow  your  dislike,  Clytie,"  he  said. 
"  Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  if  ninety-nine  women  out  of  a 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  217 

hundred  had  that  chance,  they  would  get  the  eyes  out  of 
his  head." 

"  Would  you  so  much  desire  me  to  be  like  ninety-nine 
women  out  of  a  hundred,  then,  Thornton  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Clytie ;  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Come  !  Don't  you  see  that  here's  a  way  of  pushing 
things  on  a  bit  ?  What  does  it  matter  if  the  ass  is  atten- 
tive ?  You  can  laugh  at  him.  But  keep  him  in  hand  a 
bit  until  we  want  to  let  him  loose.  Do  you  see  ?  Of 
course  I  trust  you,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence,"  she  replied.  "  But 
I  don't  think  you  will  need  to  exercise  it  much." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Oh,  never  mind.  Do  you  really  want  me,  Thornton, 
to  encourage  this  man  to  make  love  to  me,  so  as  to  get 
a  hold  on  him  for  other  purposes  ? " 

"  I  never  saw  anyone  like  you  for  the  dotting  of  i's," 
said  Thornton,  amused.  "  But  that's  about  the  size  of 
it.  Don't  you  see  what  an  infernal  ass  we  can  make  of 
him  ?  Well,  think  it  over,  little  wife.  Good-bye." 

He  opened  the  front  door, — this  little  conversation 
had  taken  place  in  the  hall, — and  ran  down  the  steps 
very  well  pleased  with  himself. 

But  Clytie's  heart  turned  from  him  and  she  passed  a 
wretched  day — all  the  more  trying  as  she  felt  in  honour 
bound  to  sing  antistrophe  of  praise  of  Thornton  to  the 
strophe  of  Mrs.  Farquharson,  with  whom  she  was  lunch- 
ing. 

In  the  evening  they  were  going  out  together.  He 
came  home  late  from  Westminster,  dressed  hurriedly, 
and  went  down  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Clytie  was 
waiting.  She  was  wearing  a  low-cut  dress.  Her  arms 
were  bare.  A  tiny  diamond  clasp  to  a  thin  gold  chain 
flashed  on  her  bosom. 

"  By  Jove  !  You're  looking  lovelier  than  ever  !  "  he 
cried.  "  Come,  let  me  kiss  you." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  kissed  the  upper  part  of  her  arm, 
and  then  her  lips.  But  she  made  no  response.  She 
shrank,  and  this  time  he  noted  it.  His  arm  still  round 
her  waist,  he  held  back  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Clytie  !  " 

He  spoke   with   loverlike   reproach,   and  kissed  her 


2l8  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

again,  and  again  she  shrank.  And  then  he  cast  her 
aside  roughly,  and  stamped  his  foot. 

"  Damn  it  !  Clytie,"  he  exclaimed,  showing  his 
teeth,  "  you  are  a  perfect  icicle  !  " 

Clytie  made  no  reply,  but  turned  to  the  window  and 
buttoned  her  glove.  Thornton  rang  the  bell  violently, 
and  when  the  footman  appeared  asked  him  why  the 
devil  the  carriage  had  not  come  round.  Then  he  flung 
himself  into  a  chair  and  turned  over  a  book.  And  thus 
they  remained  without  speaking  until  the  brougham 
was  announced.  On  their  way  to  their  dinner-party 
they  did  not  speak.  He  was  in  a  fit  of  furious  sulks, 
and  Clytie's  heart  was  too  heavy.  Afterwards  he  went 
off  to  his  club  and  she  drove  home  by  herself. 

And  this  at  the  end  of  only  four  months'  wedded  life. 
What  would  it  be  at  the  end  of  four  years,  fourteen  ? 
Clytie  strove  for  a  little  to  blame  herself  for  supersensi- 
tiveness,  egotism,  coldness.  But  her  self  rose  in  arms 
against  this  charge.  For,  like  the  unfolding  of  a  horrible 
story,  the  nature  of  Thornton's  love  for  her,  the  nature 
of  the  place  she  really  occupied  in  his  estimation,  gradu- 
ally broke  upon  her.  The  meaning  of  light  remarks, 
trivial  jests,  careless  actions  ;  the  meaning  of  caresses 
now  half  contemptuous,  now  passionate — all  came  to  her 
in  full  light,  in  all  their  crudity,  out  of  the  gray  dark- 
ness in  which  she  had  instinctively  kept  it  hidden  from 
herself.  She  stared  at  it — not  in  ignorant  surmise  as 
she  had  done  in  Paris,  but  with  a  ghastly  sickening  of 
soul. 

Oh,  the  degradation  of  it !  What  was  she  to  her  hus- 
band but  a  possession,  a  toy,  a  woman,  to  suffer  his 
caresses  when  it  so  pleased  him  to  bestow  them,  a  mis- 
tress whom  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  bind  legally 
to  himself,  so  that  she  might  serve  certain  purposes  of 
his  in  society  ?  What  little  better  was  she  to  him  than 
the  women  whom  men  buy, — Loulou  Mendes,  for  in- 
stance,— save  that  he  reckoned, — he  had  told  her  so, — on 
her  fidelity  to  him  ?  Things  she  had  tried  to  ascribe  to 
the  careless  familiarity  of  love  blazed  insultingly  before 
her,  scorching  her,  making  her  writhe  in  her  abasement. 

Naturally  satiety  had  come  to  him.  He  was  indif- 
ferent whether  he  saw  her  or  not  for  a  season.  Only  in 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  219 

his  absence  she  was  to  obey  blindly  his  caprices.  If 
only  she  was  his  wife,  she  thought  bitterly,  in  the  hum- 
drum Durdleham  way,  where  at  least  she  would  have 
had  the  conventional  position  in  their  conjugal  relations  ! 
Either  that  or  the  wild  independence  of  a  Loulou  Mendes, 
carrying  her  will  in  her  hand,  free  to  choose  her  own 
way  among  the  groves  of  the  satyrs.  For  even  there 
the  free  path  smells  sweeter  than  the  one  of  servitude. 

Just  before  the  session  ended  Clytie  came  to  a  definite 
understanding  with  her  husband.  It  is  surprising  what 
pain  can  underlie  this  mutual  adjustment  of  two  intel- 
ligences. 

The  scene  was  again  the  breakfast-room.  Each  was 
reading  the  morning's  correspondence.  Thornton 
tossed  a  letter  across  the  table. 

"  Carteret's  women  folk  can't  come,"  he  said.  "  Devil- 
ish sensible  women — they  don't  see  the  fun  of  it.  So  it's 
settled.  I  go  up  as  soon  as  this  wretched  grind  is  over." 

"Very  well,"  said  Clytie  calmly.  "I  hope  you  will 
have  a  good  time." 

"Thanks,"  he  replied  in  his  careless w^.  "It  will  be 
like  old  times  again.  And  you  will  put  in  a  good,  quiet 
couple  of  months  with  your  people." 

Clytie  bit  her  lip.  Her  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  She 
was  going  to  set  herself  in  opposition  to  him.  She 
glanced  at  him  before  she  spoke ;  he  hardly  seemed  to 
expect  an  answer,  but  continued  reading  another  letter. 
He  looked  kind  and  frank,  she  thought,  a  husband  for 
any  woman  to  be  proud  of.  In  his  morning  freshness, 
clean-shaven,  groomed,  trimmed,  he  seemed  handsomer 
than  ever.  His  close  brown  hair  had  not  a  touch  of 
gray  ;  scarcely  a  line  showed  on  his  forehead  or  beneath 
his  eyes;  and  the  dark  rich  colour  was  visible  beneath  the 
bronze  on  his  cheek.  He  broke  into  a  laugh,  buoyant 
and  careless,  over  his  letter,  and  looked  up  at  Clytie. 
Then,  his  glance  meeting  hers,  his  face  grew  more 
serious. 

"  What  are  you  gazing  at  me  for  with  those  great  blue 
eyes  of  yours,  Clytie  ?  " 

She  bent  forward,  rested  her  cheek  on  her  hand. 

"  In  regard  to  what  you  have  just  said — my  going  to 


220  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Durdleham — I  am  not  going  for  many  reasons.  I  told 
you  so,  Thornton,  the  other  day." 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  it,"  said  Thornton.  "  But  you 
are  going." 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and  she  returned  his 
gaze  calmly  and  unflinchingly. 

"  Don't  let  us  quarrel,  Thornton,"  she  said.  "  It  is  so 
sordid  and  petty.  Let  us  try  quietly  to  understand  one 
another." 

His  glance  fell  first,  and  he  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  laugh  and  unfolded  his  paper. 

"  All  right — we'll  bar  scenes.  Only  don't  say  anything 
too  severe  or  you'll  spoil  my  breakfast." 

"  Thornton,"  she  said,  not  changing  her  attitude,  "  I 
think  I  know  what  my  duty  is  towards  you,  and  I  try  to 
perform  it.  Has  it  ever  struck  you  that  you  may  have 
some  duties  towards  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  it  has,"  he  replied. 

"  I  don't  think  you  understand  me,  Thornton.  I  will 
try  to  make  it  clearer  to  you.  As  far  as  you  will  let  me 
take  an  interest  in  your  life,  I  do  so.  I  am  more  than 
willing  to  make  any  sacrifices — to  give  up  everything  for 
you.  But  when  you  do  not  want  me,  as  this  autumn,  I 
surely  may  remember  that  I  have  a  life  of  my  own  to 
lead." 

"  And  suppose  that  life  does  not  suit  me?" 

"  That  is  the  point,  Thornton.  If  you  wished  me,  out 
of  love  for  you,  to  do  anything,  I  would  do  it.  But  this 
is  a  matter  in  which  love  has  no  place.  Provided  I  am 
scrupulous  in  all  my  duties  towards  you,  I  have  a  right 
to  my  own  life,  to  my  own  antipathies,  to  my  own  favour- 
ite pursuits — in  fact  to  myself  as  an  individual,  and  it 
is  your  duty  towards  me  to  recognise  it." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  you  are  driving  at,"  said 
Thornton.  "  You  can  dislike  sweet  champagne  and  paint 
pictures  and  read  Schopenhauer  if  you  like.  Who  is 
preventing  you  ?  But  in  certain  matters,  as  you  are  my 
wife,  you  have  got  to  do  what  I  tell  you." 

"  To  take  an  extreme  case,  by  way  of  argument :  Sup- 
pose the  fancy  seized  you  to  order  me  to  remain  in  my 
bedroom  all  day — you  would  expect  me  to  obey  you  ?  " 

"  By  God  !  I  should  think  I  would  !  "  cried  Thornton, 


AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA.  221 

starting  to  his   feet,  with   blazing   eyes   and  the  veins 
standing  out  on  his  forehead. 

"  It  seems,  Thornton,"  she  said  very  quietly,  "  you 
have  married  the  wrong  woman." 

Then  she  rose,  too,  from  the  table,  moved  towards  him, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  shook  it  off  with  an 
impatient  oath,  and  turned  away,  fuming,  to  stare  out  of 
the  window.  She  was  too  well  accustomed  to  his  fits  of 
passion  to  resent  the  indignity.  She  mechanically  picked 
off  some  withering  leaves  from  some  flowers  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  At  last  he 
turned  round  again,  and  asked  her  sullenly  : 

"  Have  you  any  other  pretty  remarks  to  make  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  listen  to  them  quietly." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  I  grant  I  was  a  fool  to 
marry  you.  Let  me  hear  the  consequences  of  my 
folly." 

His  face  was  set  in  a  sneer,  an  ugly  expression.  She 
had  seen  it  several  times  since  that  evening  at  the  opera 
in  Paris.  The  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes  as  she  glanced 
at  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  and  look  like  that !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
cannot  bear  it.  I  did  not  intend  to  say  anything  hard 
just  now.  I  only  meant  that  you  had  mistaken  me, 
and  my  needs,  and  my  nature.  I  have  tried  to  look  upon 
marriage  from  your  point  of  view  for  four  months,  and 
I  can't  do  it  any  longer.  You  say  I  must  obey  you 
blindly  in  everything,  even  your  arbitrary  fancies,  sub- 
ordinate myself  absolutely  to  you.  Thornton,  believe  me, 
where  your  interests  or  love  are  concerned  I  will  do  it  ; 
but  where  they  are  not  I  can't,  and  it  will  be  happier  for 
both  of  us  that  I  should  tell  you  so  frankly.  If  you  go 
your  way  alone,  I  must  go  mine." 

"  That  means  you  set  yourself  in  defiance  to  my 
wishes  ? " 

Clytie  checked  an  impulse  of  impatience. 

"  If  you  won't  understand  me,  and  insist  on  putting  it 
that  way — yes." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  some  time.  And  then 
Thornton  ground  his  teeth  and  glared  at  her. 

"  You  can  go  your  own  way  if  you  like,  but  I  warn  you 
one  of  these  days  there  will  be  the  devil  to  pay  !  " 
is 


222  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

And  he  strode  out  of  the  room,  cursing,  and  slammed 
the  door  behind  him. 

Clytie  sat  down  by  the  window.  The  tears  would 
come  in  spite  of  her  pride.  She  had  gained  the  victory. 
But  there  are  some  victories  that  have  all  the  aching 
sense  of  defeat. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

ON  the  day  after  this  conversation  Clytie  was  surprised 
by  an  announcement  from  Durdleham  that  Mrs.  Blather 
and  Janet  were  suddenly  coming  to  town  and  would 
avail  themselves  of  her  often  repeated  invitation  to  pay 
her  a  visit  in  her  new  home.  Janet  had  been  ailing  for 
some  time  past.  The  over-refined  Davenant  blood  had 
never  been  vivifying  at  any  time,  and  now,  as  there  were 
sudden  dangers  of  a  grave  kind,  their  Durdleham  doc- 
tor had  advised  her  consulting  a  London  specialist. 
They  hurried  to  catch  the  great  man  before  he  left  for 
his  summer  holidays.  That  was  their  apology  to  Clytie 
for  the  shortness  of  their  notice.  Ordinarily  on  their 
rare  visits  to  town  they  put  up  at  Durfey's  Hotel  in 
Albany  Street.  Their  father  and  grandfather  had  put 
up  there  from  time  immemorial,  and  they  spoke  of  Dur- 
fey's with  solemn  familiarity,  as  if  it  were  the  one  hotel 
of  London.  On  this  occasion,  however,  they  came  and 
stayed  with  Clytie. 

Their  presence  in  the  house  was  a  relief  to  her,  even 
though  it  was  by  way  of  counter-irritation.  Thornton 
showed  himself  in  the  light  of  a  charming  host  and 
delighted  his  sisters-in-law.  They  could  not  find  enough 
felicitations  to  bestow  upon  Clytie.  They  forgot  the  old 
misunderstandings,  took  it  for  granted  that  Clytie  had 
finally  settled,  was  happy,  without  any  ulterior  desires. 
They  went  round  the  house,  Mrs.  Blather  manifesting 
mild  enthusiasm  over  the  more  solid  arrangements  in 
the  way  of  furniture  and  domestic  appurtenances,  Janet 
going  into  little  ecstasies  over  the  decorations. 

"  I  never  thought  you  had  such  a  talent  for  house 
management,"  said  Mrs.  Blather  after  an  inspection  of 
the  linen-cupboards  and  china-closets. 

"  I  hardly  think  it  requires  absolute  genius,"  replied 
Clytie,  "  to  see  that  sheets  are  folded  up  properly  and 
that  plates  are  not  put  away  dirty." 


224  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAM 'ARIA. i 

"  Ah  !  "  said  her  sister,  with  a  philosophic  sigh.  "  So 
many  young  wives  are  so  inexperienced." 

It  was  a  delight  to  Mrs.  Blather  to  see  Clytie  in  this 
aspect.  She  could  talk  to  her  now  on  common  ground  ; 
Clytie  had  become  an  ordinary  sensible  woman,  who 
could  discuss  the  things  that  fill  the  ordinary  sensible 
woman's  life  :  housemaids,  fancywork,  and  the  price  of 
fish.  Mrs.  Blather  knew  that  Hammerdyke  was  fairly 
well  off,  but  she  thought  it  her  duty  to  give  Clytie  many 
valuable  hints  as  to  household  expenditure,  to  which 
Clytie  listened  with  suave  distraction.  She  also  gave 
her  recipes  for  cooking,  and  the  washing  of  lace,  and 
infallible  methods  for  removing  wine  stains  from  table- 
cloths ;  also  neat  little  formulas  for  the  management  of 
a  husband. 

"  But  yours  is  simply  perfect,"  she  added,  with  refer- 
ence to  this  last.  "  Oh,  Clytie,  you  are  a  lucky  girl ! " 

To  Clytie  there  was  something  pathetically  humorous 
in  the  aspect  she  presented  to  her  sisters  ;  in  finding  her- 
self, for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  perfect  in  their  eyes  ; 
in  their  changed  relations.  It  was  amusing  to  be  the 
lady  of  the  house,  and  to  make  plans  for  Gracie  and 
Janet's  entertainment.  She  brightened  under  the  sense 
of  it,  and  though  many  a  misconception  on  their  part 
caused  her  a  sharp  twinge  of  pain,  she  allowed  them  to 
purr  on  contentedly,  taking  a  small  measure  of  enjoy- 
ment from  the  comfort  thereof.  Besides,  she  felt  that  it 
would  not  last  long.  Their  stay  was  limited  to  three 
days.  A  week  of  it  would  have  been  intolerable.  For 
this  reason  she  declined  to  accompany  them  back  to 
Durdleham.  At  first  Mrs.  Blather  was  rather  hurt  at  her 
refusal  ;  but  Clytie  gently  smoothed  over  the  matter, 
tactfully  avoiding  to  give  specific  reasons. 

Although  Thornton  was  amenity  itself  in  his  inter- 
course with  Clytie  when  they  met  in  her  sisters'  pres- 
ence, in  their  private  relations  he  showed  a  certain  sore- 
ness— the  result  of  the  process  of  understanding.  She 
tried  to  heal  this,  to  win  back  from  him,  if  not  love,  at 
least  gentleness  and  courtesy. 

"  I  must  thank  you,  Thornton,  for  being  so  nice  to  my 
sisters,"  she  said  once. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  how  to  behave  myself  in  my  own 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA.  22$ 

house,"  he  replied  coldly,  and  Clytie  retired,  and  lis- 
tened, with  an  ache  in  her  heart,  to  Mrs.  Blather's 
epithalamion. 

Still  it  comforted  her  to  see  Thornton  his  old  bright 
self  again,  as  she  had  known  him  before  her  marriage, 
even  though  she  knew  his  brow  would  darken  on  the 
departure  of  her  guests.  It  gladdened  her  to  hear  him 
talk  animatedly  to  Janet  of  the  wonders  of  the  forest  and 
the  romance  of  war.  The  hall,  the  staircase,  and  the  walls 
of  his  smoking  room  were  lined  with  curiosities  of 
travel  :  spears  and  skin-covered  shields,  swords,  wooden 
maces — a  whole  armoury  of  savage  weapons.  There  were 
feathered  headdresses,  great  rings  roughly  wrought  of 
virgin  gold,  strange  garments,  some  stained  with  blood. 
On  the  landing  above  the  hall  stairs  hung  an  evil  wooden 
yoke  with  pendent  chains  which  he  had  lifted  from  the 
necks  of  two  dead  slaves,  left  by  the  caravan  to  die  and 
rot  by  the  way ;  and,  flanking  it,  two  great  lions'  heads 
glared  defiantly.  To  each  relic  a  history  was  attached, 
now  commonplace,  now  ghastly.  Clytie  knew  them  all, 
but  she  accompanied  her  sisters  as  Thornton  took  them 
round,  a  perfect  cicerone,  and  she  was  pleased  to  see  his 
face  light  up  and  his  eyes  glow  with  the  reminiscence  of 
dangers  and  brave  deeds.  It  brought  her  a  glad  memory 
of  the  past  and  a  little  hope  for  the  future.  She  was 
grateful,  too,  to  Thornton  for  thus  effectually  hiding  from 
her  sisters  any  signs  of  their  recent  differences  and  diver- 
gencies. She  could  receive  their  congratulations  with  a 
sense  of  grim  humour.  Anything  approaching  pity,  with 
whatever  delicate  sympathy  it  might  be  conveyed,  would 
have  made  her  wince  with  pain.  Even  Mrs.  Farquharson, 
who  had  sharp  eyes  and  many  kindly  affinities  with  her, 
shared  Mrs.  Blather's  unquestioning  belief  in  the  happi- 
ness of  her  lot.  Before  others  Thornton  was  still  the 
gallant  lover  and  courteous  husband,  and  Clytie  was  not 
unthankful.  When  questioned  as  to  Thornton's  plans 
for  the  autumn  she  answered  vaguely.  The  session  had 
worn  him  out.  He  was  going  up  to  Scotland  for  the 
grouse  shooting.  She  herself  was  going  to  take  care  of 
the  house  until  his  return.  She  preferred  staying  in 
London  in  August  to  going  any  where  without  him.  And 
Mrs.  Blather,  quite  satisfied,  paid  her  a  little  compliment 


226  AT   THE   GATE   OF  &AMARIA. 

on  her  wifeliness,  and  suggested  various  household 
improvements  to  occupy  her  time  during  her  grass- 
widowhood. 

So  Mrs.  Blather  and  Janet  went  back  to  Durdleham,  to 
raise  a  flutter  of  excitement  at  the  Durdleham  tea  tables 
over  their  accounts  of  Clytie's  moral  and  material  pros- 
perity and  her  husband's  manifold  perfections.  But  the 
old  man,  Mr.  Davenant,  shook  his  head  and  sighed. 
Slow  to  receive  fresh  impressions,  he  could  not  conceive 
Clytie  other  than  wilful  and  paradoxical.  And  he  was 
suspicious  of  the  brilliant  soldier  of  fortune.  He  would 
much  have  preferred  his  daughter  to  have  married  a 
steady-going  country  gentleman  or  professional  man. 
Still  no  fault  could  be  found  with  Hammerdyke,  who  had 
treated  him  with  every  courtesy. 

Before  Thornton's  departure  for  Scotland  a  kind  of 
reconciliation  was  patched  up  between  them.  The  first 
overtures  had  come  from  Clytie.  After  all,  he  was  her 
husband.  They  were  bound  together,  for  better  or  worse, 
till  death  parted  them.  It  was  only  common  sense  to 
struggle  that  it  should  be  for  better.  She  humbled  her- 
self, then,  a  little,  confessed  that  she  had  been  unreason- 
able in  some  things.  He  happened  to  be  in  a  softer 
mood,  and  encouraged  her  to  tell  him  she  was  sorry  if 
she  had  been  cold  and  selfish.  Unconsciously  she  made 
him  feel  quite  magnanimous.  He  kissed  her  gaily,  bade 
her  think  no  more  about  it,  and  even  condescended  to 
say  with  regard  to  the  main  point  at  issue  : 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  about  right  in  not  caring  to 
go  to  Durdleham.  Your  sisters  are  not  rapid." 

A  remark  which,  although  it  jarred  somewhat  on 
Clytie's  strung  nerves,  she  nevertheless  accepted  as  a 
token  of  peace. 

This  was  the  second  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  de- 
liberately humbled  herself  before  a  man.  She  thought 
of  it  with  a  queer  little  pang.  When  she  had  put  down 
her  young  pride  so  as  to  retain  Kent's  friendship  and 
esteem,  on  the  day  that  Jack  had  destroyed  Winifred's 
picture,  it  had  been  all  gladness  and  triumph.  She 
remembered  how  happily  she  had  gone  to  sleep  that 
night,  in  pleasant  subconsciousness  of  certain  feminine 
workings.  It  had  been  a  joy  to  surrender  then.  But 


AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA.  227 

now  ?     She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  tried  to  dismiss  it 
from  her  mind. 

In  the  middle  of  August  she  found  herself  alone  in  the 
great  house,  enjoying  the  leisure  and  solitude,  the  inde- 
pendence, the  freedom  from  friction.  She  devoted  most 
of  her  time  to  her  painting,  which  had  been  sadly  neg- 
lected since  her  marriage.  Her  studio  was  a  pleasant 
room,  with  a  good  light.  It  had  not  the  severe,  business- 
like air  of  the  one  in  the  King's  Road  ;  it  was  warmer, 
heavier  with  velvet  hangings,  richer  in  quaint  furniture. 
Instead  of  the  whitewashed  walls  scrawled  over  with 
grotesque  caricatures,  it  had  a  delicately  toned  Morris 
paper.  The  floor  was  polished,  strewn  with  thick  rugs  ; 
a  great  white  bearskin  lay  before  the  hearth.  The  piles 
of  canvases  stretched  upon  rough  wooden  backs  that 
used  to  lie  stacked  up  in  odd  corners  Thornton  had 
had  framed  for  her,  as  a  surprise  to  greet  her  on  her 
home-coming,  and  now  the  best  of  them  were  hung 
round  the  room.  Some  of  her  cherished  possessions 
found  a  place — the  etching  by  Rupert  Kent,  two  or  three 
of  Winifred's  delicate  studies,  and  an  exquisite  Jacque- 
mart  that  Kent  had  given  her  long  ago.  But  otherwise 
all  was  new,  luxurious,  separating  her  from  the  old 
associations  of  her  art  life. 

Whilst  searching  for  a  subject  she  took  out  her  studies 
for  the  Faustina  picture.  But  she  put  them  aside  with 
a  shudder.  She  was  painting  merely  for  amusement,  to 
gratify  the  artistic  impulse  that  urged  her  to  create. 
But  the  hope,  by  which  she  had  been  gradually  rising 
towards  the  goal  of  her  ambition,  the  hope  of  fame  and 
full  accomplishment,  was  gone,  apparently  beyond  recall ; 
and  she  mused  upon  it  sadly.  This  sense  of  finality  is 
characteristic  of  youth — its  one  governing  pessimism. 
Yet  she  was  cheerful  enough,  glad  to  feel  the  brush  be- 
tween her  fingers  again,  and  to  smell  the  familiar  odour  of 
turpentine,  and  to  see  her  fancies  take  visible  form  under 
her  touch.  The  artist  within  her  asserted  itself,  though 
vaguely,  as  from  some  depth  where  it  lay  buried.  It 
was  undergoing  a  subtle  change,  and  its  weak,  inchoate 
manifestations  were  those  of  a  period  of  transition. 
But  Clytie  knew  it  not. 


228  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

The  Farquharsons  returned  to  town  towards  the  end 
of  the  month,  and  Winifred  also,  after  her  annual  sea- 
side holiday  with  the  children.  And  many  of  Clytie's 
other  friends  remained  in  London,  and  welcomed  her 
back  among  them.  It  was  like  a  return  to  her  old  life. 
Only  Kent  was  absent  from  her  circle.  She  missed 
him,  sighing  a  little  for  the  impossible. 

Thornton  wrote  from  Scotland  with  affectionate 
brevity.  He  did  not  know  that  he  could  have  missed 
her  so  much.  He  had  bagged  so  many  brace  that 
morning.  He  longed  to  see  her.  He  thought  he  might 
as  well  stay  on  with  Carteret  so  long  as  there  was  any 
sport  forward.  His  letters,  dashed  off  with  a  broad 
quill  pen  in  a  great,  bold  hand,  covered  four  sides  of 
notepaper,  and  came  once  a  week.  Clytie  had  no  reason 
to  complain  of  lack  of  attention  on  the  part  of  her  hus- 
band. Consequently  she  looked  forward  to  less  troubled 
days  when  they  should  lead  their  common  life  together 
again. 

An  occasional  visitor  that  she  had  during  these  weeks 
was  the  boy  Jack.  He  had  been  for  a  term  at  the  in- 
dustrial school  to  which  Treherne  and  Kent  had  pro- 
cured him  admittance,  and  now  passed  as  a  reformed 
character  amongst  his  enthusiasts.  The  teachers  at  the 
school,  with  vivid  memories  of  stormy  scenes,  might  have 
demurred  at  this  opinion  ;  but  they  were  miles  away 
holiday-making,  and  for  the  time  blissfully  oblivious 
of  Jack.  Four  months  over  a  spelling-book  and  a 
carpenter's  bench,  even  though  the  latter  may  be  situ- 
ated amid  pleasant  fields,  are  not  long  enough  to  purify 
the  blood  from  the  wildness  of  London  streets  ;  and  a 
lifetime  so  spent  cannot  wash  out  hereditary  taint  ;  but 
they  can  teach  the  use  of  soap  and  water  and  a  suitable 
adjustment  of  garments.  And  Jack  was  clean,  and  his 
wild  elf  locks  were  cropped  into  compulsory  smugness, 
and  his  clothes  conformed  to  a  strictly  conventional 
order.  This  external  revolution  was  so  startling  that  an 
accompanying  moral  reform  seemed  unquestionable. 
Even  his  mother's  dull  pessimism  was  affected  by  it. 
When  she  returned  from  her  work  she  bribed  him  with 
bread  and  treacle  to  sit  in  a  chair  where  she  could  ad- 
mire him,  instead  of  sending  him  out  of  her  way  into  the 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  229 

streets  as  she  had  been  wont  to  do.  But  Jack  ate  the 
bread  and  treacle  and  then  sauntered  into  the  street  of 
his  own  accord.  He  did  not  admire  his  mother,  and 
only  heeded  her  blandishments  when  they  assumed  an 
objective  form.  He  admired  one  person,  and  that  was 
Winifred.  With  her  the  young  animal  was  tame,  almost 
docile.  It  was  merely  owing  to  lack  of  special  instinct 
that  he  did  not  lick  her  hand.  He  was  often  in  the 
studio,  where  he  had  been  constituted  general  factotum 
during  his  holidays.  He  swept  the  floor,  cleaned  the 
windows,  set  the  brushes  and  paints  in  order  before 
Winifred  arrived,  ran  messages  for  her,  and  whenever 
she  permitted  would  sprawl  on  the  ground  by  her  side, 
following  her  movements  with  his  great  brown  eyes.  To 
prevent  him  from  wasting  his  time  and  energies  in  this 
passive  adoration,  Winifred  often  invented  commissions 
for  him  which  he  executed  with  proud  despatch,  disre- 
garding all  allurements  to  eat  the  lotus  of  the  gutter  and 
holding  his  person  sacred  as  Winifred's  messenger.  It 
was  in  consequence  of  this  that  he  found  his  way  to 
Clytie's  house,  acting  as  postman  for  his  patroness.  At 
first  he  was  shy.  He  had  not  lost  the  feeling  of  awe 
with  which  Clytie  inspired  him,  nor  had  he  forgotten  the 
dread  picture  of  her  anger  on  that  day  when  she  had 
summarily  dismissed  him  from  her  service.  It  was  only 
his  devotion  to  Winifred  that  had  induced  him  to  put, 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  his  head  in  the  lion's  mouth.  But 
when  he  found  that  the  lion  was  kind  and  roared  as 
gently  as  his  own  dove,  and  further,  gave  him  various 
unimaginable  dainties  to  eat  and  odd  shillings  to  spend 
in  surreptitious  tobacco,  the  house  in  the  Cromwell  Road 
became  invested  with  pleasant  associations. 

It  was  after  Clytie  had  had  two  or  three  visits  from 
him  that  the  idea  occurred  to  her  to  paint  the  portrait  of 
the  reformed  Jack.  The  sittings  continued  long  after 
the  necessity  for  them  had  ceased.  Jack  came  of  his 
own  accord.  At  last  one  day  he  astonished  her  by 
refusing  the  shilling  that  she  held  out  to  him. 

"  I  didn't  come  for  that,"  he  said  bluntly.  "  I  come  to 
see  you." 

Clytie  and  the  urchin  in  industrial  school  corduroys 
looked  steadily  for  some  seconds  at  one  another,  and 


230  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

both  in  their  respective  ways  were  conscious  of  having 
added  to  their  sum  of  knowledge.  Then  they  became 
real  friends.  Clytie  looked  upon  him  with  a  new  interest, 
taking  herself  severely  to  task  for  having  summed 
him  up  in  the  past  with  such  scornful  superficiality. 
She  atoned  for  it  now  by  seeking  to  interest  herself  in 
his  life,  to  give  herself  a  little  place  in  it,  whereby  it 
should  receive  some  individual  colour.  This  was  all  the 
easier  now,  as  Winifred  had  smoothed  down  many  of 
Jack's  social  asperities.  Albeit  not  refined  of  speech, 
he  no  longer  used  profane  language  in  the  studio,  nor 
did  he  entertain  her  with  sanguinary  details  of  cat 
murder.  When  the  time  came  for  him  to  return  to 
school  Clytie  felt  quite  sorry. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THORNTON  returned  in  due  time.  The  autumn  ses- 
sion began.  The  weeks  and  months  passed.  Their  re- 
lations remained  the  same  as  when  they  had  parted  in 
the  summer.  Towards  Clytie  he  manifested  a  kindly  in- 
difference, so  long  as  she  obeyed  his  wishes.  When  she 
went  counter  to  them  he  flared  up,  showed  his  teeth,  and 
swore  ;  on  which  occasions  Clytie  would  draw  herself  up, 
and,  with  her  chin  in  the  air,  leave  the  room  and  retire 
into  her  studio.  Then,  after  two  or  three  days  of  evil 
sullenness,  the  fancy  Would  take  him  to  kiss  her,  and 
lightly  swear  that  she  was  the  loveliest  woman  in  the 
world.  But  Clytie  had  lost  all  responsive  feeling.  She 
met  him  not  wholly  unaffectionately,  but  calmly,  pre- 
senting an  obedient,  passionless  cheek.  Thereupon  he 
would  either  storm  again  or  laugh,  reminding  her  of  a 
time  when  her  lips  sought  his,  asking  her  why  she 
had  frozen,  where  was  the  Clytie  of  their  bridal  month. 
And  if  he  pleaded  gently,  womanlike,  she  would  relent  a 
little,  yield  to  him,  striving  to  blot  out  the  objects  that 
met  her  sight  as  she  looked  back  towards  the  past.  Then 
there  would  recur  the  season  of  indifference,  which 
Clytie  had  grown  to  welcome. 

The  daily  life  went  on,  she  scarce  knew  how.  Visit- 
ing, entertaining,  painting,  filled  her  days.  And  she 
dreamed  wistful  little  dreams. 

And  then  there  came  to  Clytie  a  great  calm,  a  new, 
strange  happiness,  in  the  midst  of  the  life  she  had  thought 
to  be  broken.  She  would  sit  by  herself  and  think,  with 
a  smile  playing  round  the  corners  of  her  lips,  and  a  light 
in  her  eyes.  Again  the  order  of  things  seemed  changed. 
Again  a  newer  life,  with  newer  hopes  and  responsibilities, 
lay  before  her.  For  the  time  her  art,  her  needs,  were 
forgotten.  Trifling,  dainty  occupations  absorbed  her  as 
she  sat  in  the  solitude  of  the  studio  on  the  chilly  autumn 

231 


232  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

days,  her  feet  luxuriously  buried  in  the  bearskin  before 
the  great  fire.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Farquharson  would 
come  and  help  her,  with  a  yearning  hunger  in  her  eyes 
that  Clyde  knew  the  meaning  of ;  for  Caroline  was  a 
childless  woman.  And  then  Clytie  would  kiss  her 
silently  and  Caroline  would  shake  her  head  and  laugh, 
and  talk  in  her  bright  way  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

Only  at  times  did  a  wave  of  bitterness  pass  over  her. 
If  all  that  had  happened  in  her  married  life  since  the 
train  had  carried  her  out  of  Bordighera  station  had  been 
different  !  If  only  she  could  see  her  husband  as  she 
saw  him  that  day,  by  the  ruined  tower,  when  she  passed 
her  hand  over  his  hair  and  thought  him  all  that  could 
suffice  a  woman's  needs  !  Sometimes  she  looked  at  him 
now,  furtively,  when  his  face  was  in  repose.  He  seemed 
the  same,  handsome,  brave,  ideally  perfect  in  manhood. 
Why  had  not  the  glamour  lasted  ?  Why  should  the 
"  dream  be  better  than  the  drink "  ?  And  then  she 
would  turn  away  and  the  thought  would  rise  : 

"  Why  did  I  not  continue  blind?  Would  to  God  this 
knowledge  of  him  had  never  come  !  " 

He  grew  a  little  kinder  to  her,  however.  It  was  a 
rough,  patronising  tenderness,  it  is  true,  but  yet  Clytie 
felt  grateful.  A  little  act  of  forethought  and  considera- 
tion softened  her  towards  him  much  more  than  it  war- 
ranted. Perhaps  in  spite  of  all  he  might  have  won  her 
to  him  again,  and  brought  her  lips  to  his  in  a  kiss  of  rare 
meaning — for  at  certain  times  there  are  wondrous  ten- 
dernesses and  wondrous  powers  of  forgiveness  in  woman. 
But  Thornton  lost  the  golden  chance,  being  busy  with 
his  muck-rake. 

He  came  home  one  afternoon,  in  an  evil  humour. 
Clytie,  prepared  to  welcome  him,  looked  up  kindly  from 
her  lounge-chair  as  he  came  into  the  studio,  but  as  she 
saw  the  blackness  of  his  face,  her  heart  sank.  A  foot- 
stool came  in  his  way,  and  he  sent  it,  with  a  kick,  sliding 
along  the  polished  floor. 

"  Why  do  you  litter  up  the  place  with  these  infernal 
traps,  Clytie?"  he  asked  crossly  as  he  came  up  to  the 
fire  to  warm  his  hands. 

Clytie,  like  a  wise  woman,  held  her  peace.  Silence 
is  a  very  good  friend  sometimes.  But  as  he  remained 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  233 

there  moodily,  without  saying  a  word,  and  the  silence  was 
growing  uncomfortable,  she  asked  him  what  was  amiss. 

"  Everything's  amiss  !  "  he  replied  roughly  —  "  all 
through  your  silly  folly.  Read  that  !  " 

He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket  book  and  threw  it 
into  her  lap.  It  ran  : 

DEAR   HERNSHAWE  : 

As  I  think  Simmons  would  be  a  more  satisfactory  man  for  Bur- 
chester  than  Hammerdyke,  I  have  suggested  the  former  to  the  local 
Conservative  association.  As  they  seem  rather  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable 
candidate,  I  think  they  will  accept  my  nominee. 

Yours  truly, 

E.    GODDERICH. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Thornton,"  said  Clytie,  laying  the  letter 
down  on  the  afternoon  tea  table  by  her  side.  "  But  you 
hardly  expected  to  have  a  chance  so  soon." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  slave  away  at  this 
hack's  work  for  two  or  three  years  ? " 

"  No  ;  but  this  is  only  the  second  or  third  vacancy 
that  has  occurred." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  Godderich  promised 
to  run  me  as  soon  as  he  saw  an  opening.  Hernshawe 
was  amazed  at  this  letter  this  morning.  Don't 
talk  of  what  you  know  nothing  about.  It's  simply 
infernal  spite  on  Godderich's  part !  Who  is  Simmons  ? 
A  damned  cheesemonger  with  a  jubilee  knighthood,  and 
as  much  brains  as  a  double  Glo'ster  !  Godderich  has 
the  reputation  for  this  sort  of  thing.  That  was  why 
I  wanted  to  keep  in  with  him.  If  you  had  taken  a 
ha'porth  of  interest  in  the  matter,  it  would  not  have 
happened.  You  have  treated  the  man  in  your  con- 
founded icy  don't-address-me-or-I'll-petrify-you  kind  of 
way,  and  you  have  put  his  back  up  against  us  !  " 

"  I  always  treated  him  courteously,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove,  I  know  what  that  means !  "  sneered 
Thornton.  "  And  now  you  can  have  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  how  your  courtesy  has  played  the  fool  with  my 
plans." 

"  I  can't  understand  you,  Thornton,"  she  replied 
wearily.  "  I  should  have  thought  you  of  all  people 
would  have  preferred  to  win  your  own  battles." 

"  So  I  shall  in  future.     I  shall  take  jolly  good  care  not 


234  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

to  ask  you  to  help  me  any  more !  After  all  your  fine 
professions  of  identifying  yourself  with  my  life  and  that 
sort  of  rot  I  really  thought  you  would  be  willing  to 
help  me — in  about  the  only  way  a  woman  can." 

"  By  a  silly,  ignoble  flirtation  ?  Would  you  really  hope 
to  win  success  by  your  wife's  dishonour  ? " 

"  Oh,  rot !  "  cried  Thornton  savagely.  "  Who  the  devil 
talked  about  dishonour?" 

"  Well,  then,  we  don't  see  things  in  the  same  light," 
said  Clytie  quietly.  "  And  I  am  very  glad  you  have  lost 
Godderich's  influence,  if  that  is  what  it  depended  upon." 

He  turned  and  faced  her,  in  one  of  his  blind  rages. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  at  once  you  don't  care  a  little 
damn  about  me?  It  would  be  nearer  the  truth.  What 
the  deuce  did  I  marry  you  for,  when  there  are  thousands 
of  better  women  in  the  world  who  are  to  be  had  for  the 
asking  ?  About  the  only  thing  I  have  ever  asked  you  to 
do  for  me  was  to  employ  a  little  womanly  tact,  and  then 
you  get  up  on  the  high  horse,  damme  !  and  talk  about 
dishonour  !  One  would  have  thought  you  had  been  bred 
in  a  nunnery  instead  of  the  disreputable  gutter  in  the 
King's  Road  I  found  you  in  ! " 

"  Oh,  stop  ! "  said  Clytie,  rising.  "  If  I  were  well,  per- 
haps 1  might  be  angry  and  amuse  you  with  a  row.  But 
I  am  not  equal  to  it  at  present,  believe  me.  I'll  see  you 
at  dinner." 

She  walked  towards  the  door,  but  Thornton  intercepted 
her  with  three  or  four  quick  strides. 

"  I'm  hanged  if  you  do  !  "  he  said.  "  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  my  digestion.  I'm  not  going  to  stay  in  the 
house  with  you  !  " 

And  he  strode  out  of  the  studio,  slamming  the  door. 

"Thank  God  !  "  said  Clytie  to  herself. 

And  so  the  film  of  reconciliation  that  new  circum- 
stances had  begun  to  spread  was  rudely  torn  asunder, 
and  the  breach  beween  them  grew  greater  than  before. 
For  several  days  Clytie  suffered.  Then  she  resigned 
herself  to  the  inevitable,  and  in  her  thoughts  drifted 
away  from  her  husband.  For  they  were  sweet  thoughts, 
full  of  unspeakable  consolation.  And  the  weeks  wore 
on,  and  the  evenings  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  and  the 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  235 

little  pile  of  dainty  needlework  grew  higher  in  the  press. 
Thornton  rarely  disturbed  her ;  the  time  that  he  could 
spare  from  his  official  duties  he  passed  as  a  man  about 
town  idles  the  hours  away.  A  man  with  the  least  do- 
mestic tastes  in  the  world,  he  found  no  especial  pleasures 
in  his  house.  His  wife  did  not  amuse  him  ;  the  cooking 
at  his  club  was  more  to  his  taste  than  that  which 
awaited  him  at  home.  There  was  no  earthly  reason  why 
he  should  use  the  house  for  any  other  purpose  than 
sleeping,  breakfasting,  and  the  occasional  entertainment, 
which  was  now  discontinued  for  a  season.  He  lived  his 
own  life,  more  or  less  satisfactory  to  himself,  and  left 
Clytie  to  her  own  devices.  Wherefore  she  not  unfre- 
quently  thanked  the  Almighty.  She  lived  practically 
alone.  Winifred  came  to  see  her  from  time  to  time. 
Mrs.  Farquharson  was  often  with  her.  The  shrewd  eyes 
of  Caroline  saw  that  there  was  something  wrong  in  the 
marriage  of  which  she  had  augured  such  fair  fruits. 
But  as  Clytie  proudly  kept  all  her  troubles  to  herself, 
Caroline  could  do  no  more  than  surround  Clytie  with 
her  mute  sympathy.  This  gradual  discovery  was  a 
shock  to  her  faith  in  human  nature.  One  of  the  two  had 
failed  ;  which  one  was  it  ?  Her  instinct  told  her  that  it 
was  not  Clytie  ;  her  husband  unequivocally  affirmed  that 
it  was  Hammerdyke.  When  her  instinct  and  her  hus- 
band differed  she  sometimes  trusted  to  one  and  some- 
times to  the  other,  by  way  of  giving  a  certain  variety  to 
life.  When  they  coincided  she  had  no  option  but  to  be- 
lieve. So,  although  giving  up  her  hero  cost  her  a  great 
pang,  her  heart  went  out  more  than  ever  to  her  friend. 

It  was  a  period  of  strange  new  happiness  for  Clytie. 
It  showed  itself  outwardly  in  her  art.  No  one  but  herself 
has  ever  seen  the  pictures  that  she  painted  during  this 
time — not  even  Caroline.  They  were  all  unfinished, 
sketched  in  the  hurried,  semi-impressionist  manner  with 
which  from  her  early  girlhood  she  had  been  wont  to  give 
objectivity  to  her  cravings  and  imaginings  ;  but  they  were 
dainty,  laughing,  tender  things,  a  world  of  waxen  touches 
and  sweet  hopes.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  how  many  small 
panels  she  covered  with  the  promises  of  this  new  life. 
Sometimes,  when  she  was  quite  alone,  she  would  lock  the 
door  and  take  them  out  and  arrange  them  along  the  wall 


236  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA, 

on  the  ledge  above  the  dado,  and  gladden  her  heart  with 
them.  After  which  she  would  collect  them  hastily  and 
lock  them  up,  with  a  smile  at  her  own  foolishness.  She 
meditated  now  and  then,  before  the  fire,  with  closed  eyes, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  Book  of  New  Formulas, 
which  had  grown  somewhat  tear-stained  and  dusty  ;  but 
she  found  in  it  nothing  relating  to  present  things,  and 
she  laughed  quietly  at  the  omission,  resolving  to  rectify 
it  by  and  by.  It  was  strange  that  she  had  not  included 
this  in  her  scheme  of  life.  And  yet,  after  all,  was  it  so 
strange  ?  She  could  not  quite  decide.  But  the  future 
she  never  questioned.  The  evolution  of  her  own  indi- 
viduality seemed  in  no  wise  to  concern  her.  She  had 
projected  herself  into  another  life.  And  she  looked  at 
the  world,  and  again  she  saw  it  fair ;  and  peace  rested 
on  her  eyelids  as  she  slept.  And  the  weeks  went  on. 

One  evening  in  the  middle  of  December  Thornton  and 
herself  were  alone  together.  They  had  finished  dinner 
and  he  was  smoking  a  cigar  with  his  coffee  in  the  dining- 
room.  Relations  between  them  were  beginning  to  grow 
kindlier  again.  That  is  to  say,  he  curbed  his  temper, 
inquired  after  her  health,  and  occasionally  spent  an  even- 
ing at  home.  They  had  not  spoken  much  during  the 
meal.  Now  that  they  had  so  few  interests  in  common, 
their  conversation  was  generally  desultory.  The  one 
great  and  precious  bond  that  was  to  be  between  them 
was  rarely  mentioned.  It  was  too  deeply  rooted  in  the 
holiest  place  of  Clytie's  soul  for  her  to  discuss  it  in  the 
commonplace  interviews  she  had  with  her  husband,  and 
his  interest  in  the  matter  did  not  go  much  beyond  a 
rather  irritating  sense  of  responsibility.  Some  feeling 
of  the  sort  prompted  him  on  this  evening  to  allude  to 
the  subject. 

"  I  heard  from  the  Claverings  this  morning,"  he  said, 
knocking  off  his  cigar  ash  into  the  fender.  "  They  want 
us  to  go  and  spend  Christmas  with  them  in  their  new 
place  in  Hampshire." 

"  Oh  ? "  said  Clytie  politely. 

She  had  seen  Mrs.  Clavering  several  times  during  the 
summer  in  town,  and  futher  acquaintance  had  only 
increased  the  antipathy  she  had  conceived  in  Paris. 
Thornton,  however,  had  been  pretty  intimate  with  them 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  237 

during  the  latter  part  of  the  season,  and  he  had  met 
Major  Clavering  again  in  Scotland.  Hence  the  invi- 
tation. 

"Well,"  asked  Thornton,  "what  shall  I  do  ?  Of 
course  your  going  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Naturally,"  replied  Clytie,  glad  that  that  point  was 
settled  without  any  discussion.  "  Why  do  you  ask 
me?" 

"  To  know  what  your  wishes  are  as  regards  myself. 
Clavering  has  got  some  good  shooting,  I  believe,  and  his 
wife  always  keeps  a  decent  house.  I  don't  see  what 
good  I  should  be  here  ;  but  still,  if  you  would  like  me  to 
stay  on  and  see  you  through,  I  don't  mind  a  bit." 

He  meant  to  be  magnanimous.  Perhaps  he  expected 
his  wife  to  be  duly  grateful  ;  as  it  was  she  only  replied 
somewhat  wearily  : 

"  You  must  do  whatever  you  think  best,  Thornton.  I 
should  not  like  to  keep  you  here  on  my  account,  while 
you  might  be  having  a  good  time  with  your  friends." 

"  Oh  !  it's  all  the  same  to  me,"  he  said.  "  It's  just  as 
you  like." 

Clytie  shook  her  head  despondently.  If  there  could 
have  been  any  pleasure  to  either  of  them  in  his  staying, 
these  questions  would  have  been  impossible.  It  was  love 
and  not  politeness  that  should  have  kept  him  by  her 
side. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  think  of  it?  Thornton,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  thank  you  for  asking  me  ;  but  you  couldn't 
do  much  if  you  stayed,  you  know." 

"  I  think  I  should  be  somewhat  in  the  way,"  he  said 
good-temperedly.  "  That  sort  of  thing  is  not  much  in 
my  line.  However,  I  did  not  like  to  accept  without  ask- 
ing you.  Are  you  sure  you  don't  mind  ?  " 

"Oh,  quite  sure  !  "  said  Clytie  suavely. 

So  the  point  was  amicably  settled,  and  Thornton  went 
down  to  Hampshire  to  shoot  Clavering's  pheasants  and 
to  be  led  cynically  captive  by  Clavering's  wife.  To 
avoid  giving  the  latter  a  gratuitous  loophole  for  sarcas- 
tic attack,  he  forbore  to  hint  at  the  cause  that  prevented 
Clytie  from  accompanying  him.  He  said  vaguely  that  she 
was  with  her  people.  Mrs.  Clavering  did  not  press  the 
point  in  any  way,  as  she  reciprocated  Clytie's  dislike,  and 
16 


238  AT   THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

was  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  what  became  of  her.  In 
fact  she  was  greatly  relieved  when  Thornton  announced 
that  he  was  coming  alone.  Him  she  could  manage  as 
she  liked — or  thought  she  could,  which  comes  to  the 
same  thing. 

The  house  which  the  Claverings  had  taken  for  the 
winter  was  one  that  appealed  to  the  quieter  tastes  of  a 
man  like  Thornton.  There  was  good  hunting  in  the 
neighbourhood,  and  the  stables  were  well  filled  with  hunt- 
ers, some  of  which  Major  Clavering  had  hired  for  the  sea- 
son. Over  the  estate  attached  to  the  house  was  excel- 
lent partridge  shooting,  and  the  covers  were  stocked  with 
pheasants.  The  house  itself  was  straggling — as  a  coun- 
try house  should  be — roomy,  and  capable  of  accommodat- 
ing comfortably  the  large  party  that  was  assembled  for 
Christmas.  It  contained  two  billiard  tables,  a  concert 
room  staged  for  private  theatricals,  and  a  magnificent 
club-furnished  smoking-room  with  a  specially  made  bac- 
carat table.  Among  the  party  the  masculine  element 
greatly  preponderated,  but  the  few  women  who  were 
there  had  been  carefully  selected  by  the  hostess  to  main- 
tain a  nice  equilibrium.  The  major  invited  the  men,  and 
his  wife,  running  over  the  list,  had  settled  upon  the 
women.  She  was  doubly  grateful  that  Clytie  had 
thought  fit  to  decline. 

On  the  evening  of  his  arrival  Thornton  came  down 
early  after  dressing  and  found  Mrs.  Clavering  alone  in 
the  drawing-room,  reclining  luxuriously  before  the  blaze 
under  the  great  marble  chimney-piece. 

u  Clavering  must  have  come  into  a  pot  of  money  in 
order  to  run  this,"  he  said,  parting  his  coat  tails.  "  I 
have  just  been  round  the  place.  I  had  no  idea  it  was 
such  an  extensive  development." 

"Yes.  It's  better  than  soldiering.  Tom's  looking 
out  for  a  place  of  his  own  something  after  the  style 
of  this.  The  Dynevors  wanted  to  go  to  Australia,  and 
so  they  have  let  it  to  us  cheap." 

He  nodded,  not  very  interested,  and  twirled  his  mous- 
tache in  silence. 

"  You  are  not  making  a  very  good  start  by  way  of 
being  amusing,"  said  Mrs.  Clavering.  "  How  is  your 
wife?" 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  *39 

.  "  Oh,  very  well.  But  I  don't  see  how  that  topic  could 
amuse  you.  Matrimony  isn't  very  funny.'* 

"  Glad  to  get  out  of  the  toils,  I  suppose." 

"  Passably.  It  leaves  me  free  in  the  society  of  the 
only  woman  I  have  reasonably  cared  for,"  he  said,  with- 
out changing  his  attitude. 

"  Have  you  come  down  to  play  at  that  sort  of  thing 
again  ? "  she  asked,  arching  her  eyebrows,  with  a  little 
supercilious  curl  on  her  thin  lips. 

"  That's  what  you  wanted  me  here  for,  I  suppose." 

"  You  came  to  shoot  little  birds  on  the  invitation  of  my 
adoring  husband." 

"  Perhaps  the  motives  were  mixed.  You  wouldn't 
believe  me  if  I  told  you  I  had  come  to  see  you.  That 
was  my  main  inducement.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
begun  better  and  told  you  of  my  longing  and  despair. 
Let  me  make  my  declaration  now,  Clara." 

"  Bah  !  my  friend.  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? " 
she  said  cynically.  "  You  don't  care  a  straw  for  me — 
you  told  me  yourself  I  had  gone  off  lamentably.  And  I 
don't  rate  you  a  halfpenny  above  your  worth.  You  are 
a  fine-looking  man  with  impulses  and  animal  passions 
instead  of  brains  and  heart  ;  and  if  you  were  to  die 
to-morrow,  my  delicate  appreciation  of  my  dinner  would 
not  be  impaired.  So  why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
have  we  revived  this  miserable  farce  ?  " 

"  It's  a  kind  of  absinthe.     We  like  it." 

"  If  I  could  pump  up  any  enthusiasm  about  you,"  she 
went  on,  not  heeding  his  epigram, "  I  could  understand  it. 
But  you  are  bad  all  through.  You  would  not  even  be 
moderately  faithful  to  me — as  you  are  not  to  your 
wife." 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Thornton 
quickly,  showing  his  teeth.  But  Mrs.  Clavering  laughed. 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  or  a  woman  of  the  world, 
my  friend  ?  I  have  eyes  and  I  have  ears.  I'll  go  into 
particulars  if  you  like." 

"  That  would  scarcely  be  interesting,"  he  said. 

He  looked  at  her  for  some  moments  and  then  burst  out 
into  his  resonant  laugh,  expecting  boyish  indulgence  for 
his  peccadilloes.  His  whole-hearted  animal  laughter  was 
irresistible.  The  woman  joined  in. 


240  AT   THE    GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I  don't  know  which  is  the  worse  of  us  two,"  she  said, 
"  Perhaps  I.  I  forgive  you." 

The  piquant  cynicism  of  this  revived  liaison  attracted 
Thornton,  was  an  enjoyable  complement  to  the  essentially 
masculine  side  of  that  country-house  life.  He  was  a 
keen,  brilliant  sportsman,  a  famous  shot,  a  perfect 
though  reckless  rider,  standing  out  in  all  physical 
qualities  far  above  the  other  men  of  his  type  who 
were  his  fellow-guests.  By  them  he  was  flattered, 
in  an  honest  British  way,  his  acts  were  applauded,  and 
his  opinions  received  with  respect.  In  the  slaying  of 
creatures,  brute  or  human,  he  was  an  indubitable  author- 
ity. And  although  he  was  accustomed  to  a  certain  shade 
of  deference  from  his  associates,  it  never  failed  to  gratify 
his  somewhat  barbarous  nature.  Much  of  him  had 
remained  undeveloped.  Small  things  pleased  and  capti- 
vated him.  To  be  the  central  figure  in  this  tiny  world 
of  sport  was  unalloyed  pleasure  to  the  man  of  fierce 
passions  and  heroic  courage.  And  the  bitter  philander- 
ing in  his  relations  with  Mrs.  Clavering  amused,  stimu- 
lated, irritated,  and  fascinated  him.  In  his  own  way, 
therefore,  he  was  enjoying  himself  exceedingly.  Beyond 
writing  Clytie  a  hurried  note  on  the  second  day  after  his 
arrival,  he  scarcely  recalled  to  himself  her  existence. 
When  he  did  it  was  with  petulant  annoyance.  He 
wished  to  God  he  had  not  been  such  a  fool  as  to  marry. 
And  now  what  the  deuce  was  the  point  of  having  chil- 
dren ?  But  that  was  his  wife's  concern  after  all,  for 
which  he  cordially  thanked  the  wise  contriver  of  the 
human  mechanism. 

Christmas  came,  was  celebrated  with  much  festivity. 
On  Boxing  Day  there  was  a  big  partridge  drive  over  a 
distant  corner  of  the  estate.  It  had  been  carefully  saved 
for  this  one  day's  sport  and  the  birds  were  accordingly 
plentiful.  The  best  portion  of  it — a  field  sloping  from  a 
ridge  and  skirting  a  pine  wood  and  then  merging  into 
a  wide  gorse-covered  pasture  tract — was  reserved  till  after 
lunch.  But  the  sport  was  good  in  the  outlying  approaches 
to  this,  and  it  was  not  without  some  irritation  that  Thorn- 
ton tore  open  a  telegram  which  a  breathless  messenger 
brought  up.  It  announced  the  birth  of  a  son.  Thorn- 
ton went  on  with  the  line  across  the  wet,  ploughed  fields, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  241 

but  until  they  halted  for  lunch  luck  did  not  come  his 
way. 

Mrs.  Clavering  and  the  other  ladies  had  walked  over 
with  the  luncheon-baskets.  The  day  was  warm  and 
relaxing.  They  lingered  over  the  meal  longer  than  they 
had  intended.  When  a  keeper  came  up  and  suggested 
that  if  they  wanted  to  shoot  the  slope  before  dusk  they 
had  better  be  starting,  the  men  sprang  up  in  a  hurry 
and  betook  themselves  thither.  Thornton  was  the 
extreme  man,  on  the  right,  near  the  pine  wood,  which 
was  being  beaten.  His  ill-success  in  the  morning  had 
piqued  his  vanity.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  be  second 
or  third  in  matters  of  prowess.  After  he  had  brought 
down  his  first  brace  his  whole  frame  was  kindled  with 
the  desire  to  slay.  Even  partridges  he  could  not  kill 
calmly.  Covey  after  covey  was  driven  out  of  the  wood, 
and  as  he  had  the  first  chance,  his  bag  increased  speedily. 
They  had  thus  proceeded  halfway  down  the  long,  strag- 
gling slope.  The  keeper  by  Thornton's  side  had  just 
handed  him  his  gun,  and  was  watching  the  wood  with 
intent,  outstretched  hand.  A  covey  was  being  driven. 
At  that  moment  another  messenger,  a  boy,  ran  down  the 
slope  and  put  a  telegram  into  Thornton's  hand.  With 
an  impatient  oath  he  stuffed  it  into  the  pocket  of  his 
shooting-coat,  just  in  time  to  be  able  to  fire  his  two 
barrels  into  the  whirring  flight  of  birds.  The  next  man 
to  him  fired  simultaneously.  Two  birds  fell.  The  warm 
dispute  that  arose  caused  Thornton  to  forget  the  exist- 
ence of  the  telegram  in  his  pocket.  And  the  continuance 
of  the  drive  kept  his  mind  entirely  from  it. 

But  when  the  party  arrived  home,  and  were  standing 
for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  Mrs.  Clavering  came  up  to 
him  and  asked  whether  he  had  received  his  second  tele- 
gram safely.  Then  he  remembered.  He  drew  it  out, 
read  it. 

"  Damn  ! "  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  and  crumpling 
the  flimsy  sheet  into  a  ball,  threw  it  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience  into  the  fireplace.  Then  he  turned  and 
talked  with  Mrs.  Clavering  until  he  went  upstairs  to 
change. 

As  chance  willed,  the  crumpled  telegram  had  not 
fallen  into  the  blazing  wood  fire,  but  had  struck  upon  a 


242  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

log  and  dropped  on  its  unkindled  side.  And  chance 
willed  that  Mrs.  Clavering  should  have  noticed  this. 
Women  of  her  type  are  cynically  unscrupulous.  As  soon 
as  the  hall  was  clear  of  men  she  picked  up  the  telegram 
and  read  it.  Her  face,  which  when  she  was  by  herself 
was  somewhat  faded,  grew  a  little  grayer.  She  put  the 
telegram  in  her  pocket. 

Chance  willed  also  that  Thornton  and  Mrs.  Clavering 
should  find  themselves  alone  for  a  long  spell  after 
dinner  in  the  little  withdrawing-room,  where  smoking 
was  permitted.  Most  of  the  men  were  tired.  One 
or  two  of  the  women  had  gone  up  to  their  rooms.  The 
rest  were  playing  billiards.  Thornton  was  in  gay  spirits, 
talking  recklessly,  giving  her  openings  for  sarcasms,  and 
then  closing  in  upon  her  with  a  brutality.  It  was  an 
amusing  game. 

Suddenly  she  asked  him  irrelevantly  : 

"  When  are  you  going  back  to  London  ?  " 

"  You're  a  wise  woman,"  he  replied,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair.  "  But  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  a  question — a  simple  one.  Are  you 
going  to  London  to-morrow?" 

"  No  ;  why  should  I  ? — unless  you  are  getting  senti- 
mental over  me,  and  would  prefer  the  illusion  of  my 
absence  to  the  disenchantment  of  my  bodily  presence. 
If  you  mean  it  as  a  hint,  of  course  I'll  go." 

"  I  do  mean  it  as  a  hint,"  she  said  with  a  hard  kind  of 
drawl.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  quite  such  an  unrea- 
soning brute.  Hadn't  it  occurred  to  you  that  it  was 
only  common  decency  to  go  off  and  help  bury  your  new- 
born child  ? " 

She  rose,  and  gathering  up  her  skirts,  left  him  before 
he  had  time  to  recover. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THUS  it  had  happened  with  Clytie  during  Thornton's 
absence.  There  came  a  morning  at  the  end  of  the  Old 
Year  when  the  snow  and  sleet  dashing  against  the  win- 
dow could  be  dimly  heard  in  the  heavily  curtained  room, 
and  Clytie  feebly  whispered:  "Give  me  the  child," 
Gently  they  told  her  that  the  life  had  merely  fluttered 
on  the  threshold  and  passed  back  into  the  silence  whence 
it  came.  And  she  sank  back  on  her  pillows,  struck  to 
the  heart  with  a  dumb,  hopeless  heartsickness. 

Recovery  was  slow.  Clytie  lay  for  many  days  quite 
listless,  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  physical  weak- 
ness aiding  to  make  her  feel  a  great  self-pity.  The  long 
waiting,  the  fear,  the  pain,  all  had  been  counted  as  noth- 
ing if  at  the  close  there  could  have  lain  in  her  arms  a  little 
child — one  whose  touch  would  draw  all  pain  from  her 
heart,  make  her  forget  every  sorrow.  And  the  passionate 
child  hunger,  begotten  of  the  pangs  of  maternity,  woke 
within  her  and  cried  for  satisfaction. 

The  whole  weight  of  the  world's  misery  crushed  down 
upon  her.  She  awoke  to  a  gray  world.  Its  glory  had 
departed.  There  was  nothing  left  to  live  for,  and  a  great 
despair  came  over  her.  What  was  the  use  of  dragging 
out  this  broken,  colourless  existence  until  the  time, — 
hopelessly  remote  it  seemed  to  her,  now  that  the  blood 
ran  again  strongly  through  her  veins, — should  come  for 
her  to  die  ?  She  passed  through  the  phase  common  to  all 
strong  natures  in  supreme  moments  of  weariness,  when 
death  seemed  the  only  solution.  One  little  draught  out 
of  a  phial,  an  agonised  convulsion,  perhaps,  and  then 
eternal  nothingness.  She  did  not  fear  the  annihilation 
which  her  materialism  had  taught  her  was  the  end  of 
things.  She  had  no  eschatological  sentimentality.  But 
the  full-pulsed  animal's  instinctive  clutching  after  life 
held  her  back  ;  the  fit  passed  off,  and  she  decided  to  live 
through  another  act  of  the  dreary  tragedy. 


244  AT   THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA. 

All  feelings  of  tenderness,  trust,  common  confidence 
in  her  husband,  were  swept  away  forever.  The  faintest 
breath  of  the  old  attraction  caused  her  to  shiver  with 
repulsion.  Henceforward  they  were  mere  acquaint- 
ances, who  subsisted  from  a  common  fund,  lived  under 
the  same  roof,  and  performed  certain  conventional 
actions  in  common,  for  the  sake  of  their  own  relations 
with  a  society  that  demands  a  certain  outward  show  of 
harmony  between  husband  and  wife.  Thornton  had 
come  to  town  from  Hampshire  in  the  vilest  of  tempers. 
For  a  day  or  two  he  positively  hated  Clytie.  Then  the 
seriousness  of  her  illness  had  awakened  in  him  a  super- 
ficial sympathy.  But  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  danger 
he  regarded  her  with  cold  dislike.  She  had  abruptly 
terminated  his  pleasant  holiday.  She  had  gravely 
endangered  his  liaison  with  the  only  woman  by  whom 
he  had  been  otherwise  than  purely  sensually  attracted, 
wherein  lay  an  odd  fascination,  and  in  thus  compelling 
him  to  her  side  she  had  sharply  reminded  him  that  a 
married  man,  if  he  wishes  to  keep  in  with  the  world, 
must  not  parade  himself  too  conspicuously  as  his  own 
master.  And  Thornton  had  his  own  reasons  for  not 
wishing  to  openly  outrage  society. 

As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  travel  Clytie  went  to 
Durdleham,  for  the  first  time  since  her  marriage.  The 
quiet,  easy  life  soothed  her  for  a  while.  She  was  in  that 
condition  of  hopelessness  when  inaction  seems  the  highest 
good.  Mrs.  Blather  attributed  her  dejection  to  the 
objective  cause,  and  sympathised  with  her  as  one  woman 
can  with  another,  and  strove  to  cheer  her  ;  but  still  she 
privately  thought  this  long  brooding  somewhat  morbid. 
Clytie  always  went  to  extremes.  But  although  she 
naturally  was  unconscious  of  the  subtleties  of  dreariness 
in  the  causation  of  her  sister's  state,  she  was  none 
the  less  helpful  with  her  sympathy — and  sympathy  very 
often  is  all  the  stronger  from  the  narrowness  of  the 
channel  in  which  it  flows. 

February  and  March  passed  in  the  quiet,  monotonous 
Durdleham  way.  But  as  the  spring  grew  into  her  blood 
Clytie  felt  the  tingling  of  life  once  again,  and  the  period 
of  inactivity  was  over.  She  was  not  of  the  temperament 
to  sit  long  with  folded  hands  and  lament  over  the  futility 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  245 

of  things.  The  old  restlessness  of  her  girlhood,  though 
strangely  modified,  again  urged  her  towards  a  fuller, 
more  vivid  existence.  Again  she  looked  out  upon  the 
world  and  its  mysteries  with  a  knowledge  begotten  of 
sorrow,  and  again  vague  longings  took  possession  of 
hen  She  faced  the  new  condition  of  things  bravely,  re- 
solved to  struggle  towards  a  newer,  better  content.  If 
the  short  dream  had  come  true,  she  would  have  found 
happiness  in  the  guidance  of  another  life  ;  but  the  high 
gods  had  ordained  otherwise.  As  before  her  marriage, 
her  only  problem  was  the  working  out  of  her  own  indi- 
viduality ;  for  henceforward  Thornton  would  be  her 
husband  only  in  name.  In  what  direction  should  she 
carry  herself  so  as  to  prevent  the  fulfilling  of  her  needs 
from  developing  into  ignoble  egoism  ?  As  a  girl  she 
had  studied  life  eagerly,  had  painted  from  artistic  im- 
pulses, from  desire  for  fame,  and  from  material  necessity. 
Her  enthusiasms,  the  intimacy  of  her  odd  social  life  with 
Kent  and  Winifred,  had  kept  her  pure  and  fresh.  Now 
all  was  changed.  She  was  alone.  She  had  learned 
many  things  :  the  touch  of  the  fire  of  passion,  the  taste  of 
the  waters  of  bitterness.  Definite  enthusiasms  seemed 
to  be  wanting ;  only  the  artistic  impulse  urging  crea- 
tion remained  to  her — together  with  mechanical  skill. 
How  was  she  to  occupy  her  life  to  a  fair  and  noble  pur- 
pose ?  She  tried  to  solve  the  problem  calmly,  was  wise 
enough  to  smile  when  she  discovered  that  she  failed. 
One  cannot  range  a  row  of  potential  enthusiasms  in 
front  of  one,  like  oranges,  and  select  in  cold  blood.  So 
Clytie  determined  to  have  faith 

"...  large  in  time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  end." 

As  soon  as  she  had  arrived  at  this  decision  she  threw 
off  her  moodiness  and  became  bright  again,  to  the  great 
joy  of  Mrs.  Blather,  who  was  sighing  for  her  to  join  in 
such  Easter  dissipations  as  Durdleham  society  offered. 
In  obedience  to  her  sister,  therefore,  Clytie  burst  upon 
Durdleham  like  a  revelation.  During  her  girlhood 
Durdleham  had  regarded  her  as  odd,  refused  to  accept 
her  as  conducive  to  social  amenities.  Now  it  worshipped 


246  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

her  with  dazzled  eyes — the  whirligig  of  time  thus  bringing 
in  its  revenges.  The  irony  of  the  position  amused  her, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  brought  out  in  her  much  that 
was  good  and  whole-hearted.  She  saw,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time,  that  much  of  the  decorous  dulness  that  had 
once  chafed  her  to  frenzy  proceeded  from  an  almost 
childlike  ignorance  of  the  possibilities  of  enjoyment. 
For  a  wild  moment  the  idea  entered  her  head  to  convert 
Durdleham  to  epicureanism.  Janet,  to  whom  she  con- 
fided this  visionary  scheme,  stared  at  her  open-mouthed, 
and  Clytie  burst  out  into  genuine  mirth.  Durdleham 
was  willing  to  be  amused,  eager  to  be  brightened  by  a 
brilliant  woman  ;  but  it  would  not  be  convinced.  It 
held  by  its  principles,  would  not  yield  an  iota  in  a  single 
formula.  Still  it  could  be  brought  to  treat  a  paradox  as 
a  joke  instead  of  brooding  over  it  with  the  stolidity  of  a 
hen  sitting  on  a  china  nest-egg.  And  that  much  Clytie  did 
accomplish  during  the  short  season  of  her  social  triumph. 

In  the  middle  of  April  she  was  requested  by  Thornton 
to  return  to  London.  He  had  thrown  up  the  private- 
secretaryship,  as  his  purpose  in  accepting  it  had  been 
already  served.  By  dint  of  self-assertion  he  had  identi- 
fied himself  with  the  non-parliamentary  chiefs  of  the 
Tory  party,  and  during  the  early  spring  had  rendered 
efficient  electioneering  services.  His  chance  of  a  candi- 
dature was  therefore  only  a  question  of  time.  But  as 
he  wished  to  neglect  no  means  of  keeping  himself  in 
evidence,  he  still  felt  bound  to  call  upon  his  wife  to  aid 
him  socially — that  is  to  say,  to  preside  at  his  table  and 
receive  his  guests.  This  Clytie  was  not  disinclined  to 
do,  especially  as  his  summons  was  couched  in  pleasant 
and  courteous  terms.  So  she  bade  farewell  to  Durdleham 
and  returned  to  London. 

When  her  train  arrived  at  Euston  she  was  surprised  at 
seeing  Thornton  on  the  platform.  He  wore  a  gray  frock- 
coat  with  a  dark  rose  in  the  buttonhole,  and  lavender 
kid  gloves.  He  came  forward  and  greeted  her,  raising 
his  hat  before  he  shook  hands, 

"Have  you  had  a  tiring  journey?  You  are  looking 
very  well.  As  I  was  paying  a  call  near  Primrose  Hill, — 
ghastly  place  to  live  in,  isn't  it  ?— I  thought  I  might  as 
well  pick  you  up  here  with  the  brougham." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  247 

1  That  was  very  kind  of  you,  Thornton,"  she  said. 

They  talked  of  indifferent  subjects  during  the  long 
drive  to  South  Kensington  :  the  theatres,  odds  and  ends 
of  gossip.  When  they  got  home  he  accompanied  her  into 
the  drawing-room  and  drank  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  You're  a  deuced  lovely  woman,  you  know,  Clytie," 
he  said,  his  great  bulk  sprawling  over  a  small  drawing- 
room  chair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  fall  in  love  with  you  again.  If  you  had  not 
turned  into  absolute  ice,  perhaps  I  should.  You've  got 
that  same  devilish  witchery  in  your  skin  that  made  me  go 
wild  over  you  a  year  ago." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  talk  of  that,  Thornton.  It  is  the 
past,"  she  said,  with  'a  tremor. 

"  Well,  upon  my  soul  ! "  he  said,  gathering  himself 
together.  "  I  don't  see  why  it  might  not  be  the  present. 
I  was  going  to  unfold  to  you  a  little  scheme  by  which  we 
might  live  politely  together,  but,  by  Jove  !  now  I  look 
at  you  and  reflect  that  you  are  my  wife  after  all — you're 
so  gloriously  beautiful,  Clytie  !  " 

He  rose,  but  she  was  on  her  feet  before  him,  having 
sprung  up  with  a  beating  heart.  She  looked  at  him 
with  a  fearful  surmise  in  her  glance,  and  as  he  made  a 
stride  towards  her  she  recoiled  in  a  terror  she  had  not 
known  before. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  For  God's  sake  ! "  she  cried,  catch- 
ing at  her  breath,  instinctively  putting  out  her  hands  to 
keep  him  off.  "  That  is  all  over.  We  loved  one  another 
once.  A  horrible  mockery  of  it  is  more  than  I  can 
bear." 

"  Confound  it,  Clytie  ! "  he  exclaimed,  clenching  his 
hands  and  showing  his  teeth,  "  you're  my  wife,  and,  by  the 
Lord  !  I'll  kiss  you  if  I  choose  !  " 

The  flash  of  his  brown  eyes  that  had  once  overpowered 
her  will  now  made  her  shudder.  She  stiffened  into  a 
woman  of  iron,  with  bloodless  cheeks.  Standing  up 
perfectly  rigid,  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  hung  her  hands 
against  her  sides. 

"  Kiss  me,  then,  since  you  claim  the  right,"  she  said  in 
a  choked  voice. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  stood  looking  at  her.  Then 
with  a  loud  laugh  he  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair. 


248  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Clytie  with  shame  and  horror  in  her  heart  rushed  from 
the  room. 

It  was  not  an  encouraging  home-coming.  The  inci- 
dent, though  not  repeated,  upset  many  of  her  plans  for 
the  reconstitution  of  her  existence.  It  added  a  new 
dread.  For  she  had  counted  upon  the  continuance  of 
the  entire  indifference  with  which  Thornton  had  grown 
to  regard  her.  A  sudden  outburst  like  this  had  not 
occurred  for  many  months.  What  guarantee  had  she  that 
this  was  not  the  beginning  of  a  series  of  spasmodic 
rekindlings  of  a  fire  she  had  thought  dead  ?  For  some 
days  anxiety  lay  heavy  on  her  mind.  But  human  nature 
is  very  elastic  ;  if  it  were  not  so,  God  help  us  all  !  After 
a  while  she  recovered  and  was  able  to  talk  calmly  to 
Thornton,  who  began  by  treating  her  with  an  ironical 
politeness,  and  then  relapsed  into  his  usual  cheerful 
indifference.  Once  while  discussing  their  mutual  rela- 
tions she  broached  the  subject  of  separation. 

"  I  won't  consent,"  he  replied.  "  As  we  can't  be  lovers, 
we  may  as  well  be  friends.  You  would  gain  very  little 
by  it.  Besides,  people  would  talk,  and  for  me  that  is  an 
important  consideration." 

"  It  hardly  concerns  me,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
cynicism  that  was  new  to  her.  "  Still,  if  you  wish  it  very 
much,  I  will  remain." 

"  I  do  wish  it,  Clytie,"  he  said  in  a  softened  voice. 
"  You  can  go  your  way,  I  will  go  mine.  But  we  must 
live  together  as  far  as  the  world  sees  us." 

Clytie  yielded  with  some  misgivings,  and  set  herself  to 
work  to  discover  interests  in  life. 

The  society  life  of  London,  in  which  she  was  free  to 
play  an  important  part,  did  not  satisfy  her.  She  saw  too 
deep  below  the  surface  of  things  to  be  guilty  of  the  silly 
cynicism  that  finds  society  hollow,  its  aims  futile,  and  its 
morals  corrupt.  There  is  earnestness  even  among  culti- 
vated men  and  women.  But  society  is  formal,  conven- 
tional, and  in  the  external  rules  of  life  differs  only  in 
degree  from  Durdleham.  True,  it  has  a  far  wider 
intellectual  scope.  Contrary  to  Durdleham,  it  permits 
the  possession  of  ideas,  but  it  is  just  as  punctilious  as  to 
their  correct  expression.  The  elaborate  ceremonial  of 
society  weighed  upon  Clytie.  She  preferred  a  simpler, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  249 

directer  life.  There  were  so  many  wrappings  of  conven- 
tion to  be  pierced  through  before  she  could  get  to  the 
heart  of  a  thing  or  a  person,  and  they  wearied,  irritated 
her.  And  now,  as  Thornton  seemed  to  care  very  little 
whether  she  placed  herself  in  evidence  or  not,  beyond 
playing  the  part  of  hostess  in  his  house,  she  consulted 
merely  her  own  desires  in  her  acceptance  of  invitations. 
But  as  the  circle  from  which  these  mainly  proceeded 
was  that  into  which  her  husband's  reputation,  tastes,  and 
political  aspirations  had  led  her,  she  did  not  find  in  it 
the  interests  which  particularly  affected  her.  It  was 
beyond  her  power  either  to  feel  or  to  simulate  an  interest 
in  Thornton's  ambitions.  Nor  did  she  feel  called  upon 
now  to  profess  the  tenets  of  Thornton's  political  creed. 
She  was  a  solitary,  unconventional  Radical  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  uncompromising  Torydom,  which  is  an  unen- 
viable position  even  for  the  least  rabid  politician.  The 
political  section,  therefore,  of  her  social  circle  she  studi- 
ously avoided.  The  purely  fashionable,  frivolous  element, 
that  goes  to  Hurlingham  and  Ascot,  and  makes  itself 
merry  over  material  things,  had  attracted  her  the  pre- 
vious year  with  its  graceful  epicureanism.  She  had  still 
been  proud  of  her  husband  and  his  boyish  zest  in  amuse- 
ment, and  she  had  caught  from  him  the  spirit  of  laugh- 
ing Babylon.  But  now  it  was  pain  to  be  with  him  when 
he  chatted  and  jested  with  pretty  girls  and  idle  young 
men.  His  light-hearted  gaiety  jarred  upon  her.  She 
saw  that  men  and  women  were  affected  by  his  charm, 
and  she  had  half  longings  to  tell  them  it  was  a  lie.  So 
she  withdrew  herself  from  their  midst  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. By  this  process  of  elimination  Clytie's  circle 
became  conveniently  limited.  She  was  sick  at  heart,  and 
she  turned  more  and  more  to  the  friends  of  her  girlhood. 
Mrs.  Farquharson's  Sunday  evenings  became  pleasant 
spots  in  her  barren  week.  She  went  there  alone,  as  in 
the  old  days.  Nothing  was  changed  there  :  the  same 
faces,  the  same  bright,  eager  talk,  the  same  welcome. 
Clytie  became  her  old  self,  was  astonished  to  find  how 
many  enthusiasms  she  still  retained.  She  almost  forgot 
that  she  was  married,  and  had  said  farewell  to  theories 
of  life  and  such  like  vanities.  Only  at  times,  when  her 
own  art  came  within  the  range  of  a  friendly  arrow,  did 


250  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

she  wince  and  remember  with  a  pang  that  Clytie  Davenant 
was  dead.  Redgrave,  whom  she  occasionally  met,  for- 
bore, with  a  portrait  painter's  intuitive  delicacy,  to  ques- 
tion her  upon  the  progress  of  her  art  under  its  new  condi- 
tions. He  divined  that  his  prophecies  had  been  correct, 
and  he  was  sad  ;  because  he  had  had  great  hopes  of 
Clytie.  In  a  tentative  way  he  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs. 
Farquharson,  who  confided  to  him  her  own  surmises  as  to 
the  dubious  success  of  the  marriage.  Then  Redgrave 
brightened,  and  declared  that  there  was  hope  yet. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Caroline  with  a  touch 
of  indignation  ;  whereat  Redgrave  smiled  in  his  serene 
way. 

"  I  mean  that  hitherto  she  has  tried  to  look  at  life 
through  her  art.  Now  she  will  be  able  to  look  at  art 
through  her  life." 

"  Then  her  art  will  be  very  feeble  and  miserable  !  " 

"  Clytie's  life  has  never  been  feeble  and  miserable," 
he  replied.  "  I  feared  it  was  going  to  be  so — in  a  special 
sense,  you  know  ;  I  feared  that  she  would  be  overpowered 
by  the  physical  element  her  husband  would  bring  into 
her  atmosphere,  and  that  she  would  develop  into  the 
fashionable  married  woman,  and  thus,  at  the  same  time, 
suffer  in  spirituality  and  lose  her  grip  upon  the  subjects 
that  form  her  artistic  range." 

"I  can't  see  how  an  unhappy  married  life  can  help 
her,"  said  Caroline.  "  If  such  a  deterioration  is  possible, 
it  has  taken  place  already." 

"  Doubtless  it  has,"  Redgrave  replied  earnestly.  "  But 
it  is  not  final.  If  she  lives  within  herself  again,  she  will 
recover  spirituality  and  grip  —  both  strengthened  by 
experience  and  suffering.  That  is  the  most  precious 
knowledge,  Mrs.  Farquharson,  which  we  have  bought 
with  sorrow." 

"  Then  mine  must  be  very  worthless,"  cried  Caroline. 
"  And  I'm  very  glad  of  it.  I  would  rather  be  ignorant 
and  happy  than  wise  and  sad.  And  I  could  wish  the 
same  for  poor  Clytie.  I  can  understand  the  good  and 
beautiful  things  of  this  world  as  well  as  most  people, 
but  I  don't  believe  in  art  to  all  that  extent.  I  may  be  a 
Philistine, — God  forbid  it,  but  perhaps  I  am, — and  I  like 
to  see  people  happy." 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  251 

"  That  depends  upon  what  you  call  happiness,"  said 
Redgrave. 

But  Caroline  was  not  to  be  led  into  an  argument. 
She  had  her  views  and  expounded  them. 

"  I  mean  common,  all-round  human  happiness,"  she 
said,  "  that  makes  you  laugh  to  yourself  when  there's  no 
particular  reason  for  it.  And  I'd  sooner  Clytie  have 
that  and  never  touch  a  brush  than  paint  the  most  world- 
convulsing  pictures  and  be  wretched." 

"  But  if  she  painted  world-convulsing  pictures,  as  you 
call  them,  she  would  be  happy — much  happier  than  under 
the  other  conditions." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't !  "  she  replied,  with  a  conclusive 
nod.  "  You  are  quite  wrong,  my  dear  good  friend.  It 
is  a  secondary  consideration  to  a  woman  whether  she 
convulses  the  world  or  not.  It  might  amuse  and  gratify 
her  to  do  it  en  passant,  but  it  is  only  en  passant.  Believe 
me.  I  don't  give  my  sex  away  as  a  general  rule,  but  I 
make  you  a  present  of  that !  So  if  you're  glad,"  she 
added  with  triumphant  feminine  logic,  "  that  Clytie  has 
made  an  unhappy  marriage,  I  think  it  is  simply  detest- 
able of  you  !  " 

So  Redgrave,  routed,  retired  in  confusion  ;  but  he  took 
his  own  ideas  with  him. 

One  Sunday  evening,  early  in  July,  Mrs.  Farquharson 
ran  into  the  room  where  Clytie,  just  arrived,  was  taking 
off  her  wraps. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  by  the  window  ever  so  long, 
watching  for  your  carriage.  You  are  quite  late.  I 
wanted  to  see  you  before  you  came  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Who  do  you  think  is  here  ?  Guess  !  " 

Clytie  saw  at  once  by  Caroline's  face.  A  little  thrill 
of  gladness  sent  the  colour  to  her  cheeks  and  caused  her 
eyes  to  sparkle  as  she  paused  with  one  glove  half  off 
and  looked  quickly  at  her  friend. 

"Kent?" 

Caroline  nodded,  glad  at  seeing  that  Clytie  was 
pleased. 

"  I  wanted  to  drop  you  a  line,  but  how  could  I  on 
Sunday  in  this  postless  town  ?  George  only  condescended 
to  tell  me  last  night  that  he  was  coming.  If  we  had  as 


252  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

little  sense  as  men,  I  wonder  how  on  earth  we  should 
get  on  !  .  He  met  him  out  a  week  ago  and  persuaded 
him." 

"  It  will  be  quite  like  an  old  evening,  dear,"  said 
Clytie.  "  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  him." 

"  It  is  strange  you  should  not  have  met,"  said  Caro- 
line ;  and  then  she  added  reflectively  •  "  Well,  perhaps 
it  isn't." 

She  had  her  own  theories  on  the  subject.  And  to  say 
a  woman  has  her  own  theories  is  to  say  a  good  deal. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  he  should  have  let  us  almost 
lose  sight  of  him,"  she  continued. 

"  What  reason  does  he  give  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  reason  that  makes  one  so  helpless,  you  know. 
A  man  you  like  comes  to  you  and  says  :  '  I  have  sinned 
against  you  without  any  cause  whatever.  It  was  just 
my  own  badness,  and  nothing  else,  and  now  I  am  humble 
and  repentant' — and  what  are  you  to  do  but  forgive 
him  ?  He's  very  penitent  now  and  vows  amendment." 

Clytie  completed  her  little  toilet  arrangements  and 
went  downstairs  with  Caroline.  On  their  way  Caroline 
asked  her  where  Thornton  was. 

"He's  at  Goodwood,  staying  with  some  people  there. 
He  went  down  yesterday  for  the  races." 

"  Wouldn't  it  have  brightened  you  up  to  have  gone 
too  ? "  asked  Caroline  with  deliberate  tactlessness, 
darting  a  quick  feminine  side  glance.  But  Clytie  broke 
into  a  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  good  gracious,  no  !  I  didn't  even  know  he  was 
going  till  yesterday,  when  Roberts  asked  me  about 
something  he  was  to  do  during  the  master's  absence. 
We  are  quite  old  married  people  now,  Caroline,  and  we 
each  go  more  or  less  our  own  way.  It  saves  a  lot  of 
trouble.  You  see,  he  knew  I  wouldn't  care  for  Good- 
wood and  the  set  he's  in  with  there — the  Claverings  and 
such  like." 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  are  better  off  here,"  said  Caroline. 

"  I  know  I  am,"  replied  Clytie,  taking  her  arm.  And 
then  they  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

Clytie's  first  impulse  on  entering  was  to  look  round  for 
Kent.  She  met  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  from  the  other 
side  of  the  rather  crowded  room,  and  she  gave  him  a 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  253 

little  nod  of  greeting.  He  rose  and  joined  the  knot  of 
people  who  were  surrounding  her.  Both  were  self- 
conscious  to  the  extent  of  knowing  that,  as  they  had 
once  been  a  familiar  couple  in  that  company,  it  would  be 
inexpedient  to  allow  it  to  be  noticed  that  their  meeting 
was  an  event  to  them.  They  shook  hands,  with  a  friendly 
commonplace,  and  joined  in  the  general  conversation. 
Redgrave,  French,  the  journalist,  Mr.  Singleton,  Mrs. 
Tredegar,  were  there — most  of  the  old  faces,  a  few  new 
ones.  To  see  Kent's  among  them  was  a  joy  to  Clytie. 
She  had  never  understood  why  he  had  broken  from  her. 
Now  and  then  the  true  solution  passed  through  her  mind, 
but  she  rejected  it.  It  was  incongruous  with  his  action. 
Love  begets  wants,  and  it  is  the  nature  of  man  to  clamour 
for  them.  This  was  her  hasty  conclusion.  But  she  had 
avoided  thinking  very  deeply  upon  the  subject,  instinc- 
tively deeming  it  wiser  to  refrain. 

He  had  not  changed,  she  thought ;  and  wondered 
whether  he  would  notice  any  change  in  her.  She  found 
herself  listening  again  to  him  as  he  talked,  in  his  down- 
right, earnest  way,  quickly  noting  familiar  turns  of 
thought  and  expression,  admiring  the  thoroughness  of 
his  unconventional  enthusiasm.  The  old  contented 
humility  of  spirit  came  back  to  her.  How  much  more 
real  than  hers  was  his  life  !  How  much  she  had  learned 
and  could  learn  from  him  !  And  for  a  short,  swift 
moment  the  laughter  and  talk  sounded  dull  in  her  ears, 
and  all  the  objects  around,  all  the  faces  save  one,  melted 
away  into  the  blue  cigarette  smoke,  and  that  one  face 
remained — sitting  at  a  table  opposite  to  her,  the  lamp 
between  them — and  the  brows  were  intent  on  the  sheet 
over  which  a  quill  pen  was  scratching  assiduously  ;  and 
the  surroundings  shaped  themselves  into  her  old  rooms  in 
the  King's  Road.  Then,  just  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  the 
dream  vanished,  and  Clytie  sighed.  The  talk  languished 
a  little.  Kent  looked  somewhat  wistfully  at  her.  She 
leaned  forward  and  beckoned  him  with  a  smile  and  a 
little  upward  movement  of  her  chin. 

"  Come  down  and  give  me  some  supper,"  she  said. 
*  I  did  not  eat  anything  before  coming  out." 

"  That  was  foolish  of  you,"  he  said  involuntarily. 

Then  they  both  laughed. 


254  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA. 

"You  are  just  the  same  as  ever,"  she  said.  And  they 
went  downstairs. 

It  was  a  tradition  in  Harley  Street  that  on  Sunday 
evenings  a  cold  supper  should  be  laid  in  the  dining-room 
from  half-past  eight  onward,  so  that  guests  could  go 
down  whenever  it  so  pleased  them.  To  break  up  the 
continuity  of  the  evening  by  a  formal  gathering  around 
a  supper  table  was  opposed  to  Caroline's  notions. 
Besides,  irregularities  in  meals  were  one  of  the  features 
of  the  house.  You  need  never  be  in  time,  and  there  was 
always  food  when  you  wanted  it.  To  the  erratic  and 
unregulated  visitor  it  was  paradise.  Caroline  paid  her 
servants  extra  wages  to  insure  satisfaction  in  this  respect. 
So  Clytie's  little  manoeuvre  was  quite  in  accordance  with 
the  recognised  order  of  things. 

They  found  the  dining-room  unoccupied.  She  sat 
down  near  the  end  of  the  table,  while  Kent,  a  little  way  off, 
gravely  carved  some  chicken,  which  he  brought  to  her 
together  with  some  salad  and  a  jug  of  claret-cup.  Then 
he  sat  down  by  her,  at  the  corner. 

"  But  aren't  you  going  to  eat  anything  yourself  ? " 
she  asked,  laughing. 

"  I  am  not  hungry." 

"  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter.  Do  go  and  get  something, 
to  keep  me  in  countenance.  How  can  I  eat  when  you 
are  sitting  watching  me  like  that,  with  your  elbow  on  the 
table  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  it  so  often  before.  It  seemed  natural  to 
sit  by  you  while  you  had  your  meal.  I  was  forgetting. 
You  see  my  manners  have  not  improved.  However " 

He  rose  for  the  purpose  of  helping  himself  to  some 
food,  but  Clytie  stopped  him,  made  him  sit  down 
again. 

"  There  !  It  was  silly  of  me,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not 
think  of  it.  Don't  be  any  different  from  what  you  used 
to  be.  Let  us  imagine  that  this  evening  is  one  of  the 
old  Sunday  evenings  here.  Ah  !  If  you  only  knew  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you.  What  an  eternity  it  has  been 
since  we  met." 

"  Eighteen  months,"  said  Kent  laconically.  "  The 
longest  eighteen  months  I  have  ever  lived." 

"  Why  ?  " 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  255 

"  Don't  you  think  I  have  missed  you  ?" 

"  So  much  as  that  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  so  much  as  that." 

"  My  poor  Kent !  "  said  Clytie,  troubled.  "  I  wish  I 
could  do  something  for  you." 

"  Ah,  es  ist  vorbei"  he  said,  puckering  his  brows,  as  he 
watched  the  rings  he  was  making  in  the  damask  with  an 
inverted  wineglass.  Then  his  forehead  suddenly  cleared, 
and  he  looked  up  with  his  frank  laugh. 

"You  see  I  am  just  as  much  of  a  bear  as  ever.  In- 
stead of  telling  you  what  a  delight  it  is  to  be  with  you 
again,  I  come  to  you  complaining,  and  I  ought  to  have 
every  reason  not  to  rail  at  fortune." 

"  You  are  doing  great  things,  I  hear,"  said  Clytie. 
"  Tell  me  about  them." 

"  Oh,  they  are  neither  great  nor  much  worth  telling. 
The  opus  is  being  translated  into  German,  and  part  of 
it  will  be  soon  published  by  the  University  of  Vienna." 

"  That  is  a  feather  in  your  cap." 

"  A  big  one.  I  don't  think  I  am  given  to  running 
after  notoriety  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  it  is  gratifying 
to  be  recognised  a  little.  It  encourages  one." 

"  Ah,  it  does  !  "  said  Clytie  with  more  meaning  than 
she  intended. 

"  So  I  have  been  working  away  at  it  harder  than  ever." 

"I  wish  I  had  your  enthusiasm,"  she  said.  "And 
your  power  of  work.  Do  you  remember  your  lectures  ? " 

They  talked  a  little  about  the  old  days,  half  sadly, 
half  tenderly.  Those  memories  were  very  pleasant. 
Then  they  came  back  to  the  present. 

"  Winnie  tells  me  you  are  a  great  man  now  at  the 
Museum.  I  am  so  glad." 

Kent  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly  and  laughed. 

"  Winifred  is  quite  an  Iris,"  he  replied.  "  For  she 
comes  down  to  earth  sometimes  and  tells  me  things 
about  you.  Yes,  I  am  quite  a  man  of  affluence  these 
days.  I  am  the  head  of  the  department.  I  have  got  so 
much  money  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

"I  hope  you  employ  some  of  it  in  giving  yourself 
proper  meals,"  said  Clytie.  "  Or  do  you  still  have  your 
extraordinary  suppers  ? " 

"Oh,  I  live  just  the  same,"  said  Kent.     "If  I  began 


256  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

to  be  respectable  in  one  thing,  I  should  gradually 
become  so  in  all." 

"  And  the  rooms  are  just  the  same  as  ever  ? " 

"  A  few  more  pictures  and  odds  and  ends.  And  I  have 
got  a  carpet.  That's  Wither's  doing.  He  came  to  see 
me  in  the  winter  and  caught  a  cold,  due  to  the  bare 
boards,  so  he  said.  When  he  had  recovered  he  made 
me  go  and  buy  a  thick  Turkey  square.  After  that  I 
had  serious  designs  of  forbidding  him  the  rooms  lest  he 
should  turn  them  into  a  boudoir  altogether." 

They  laughed  over  this  idea.  Clytie  asked  him 
whether  he  still  kept  the  tripods  before  the  fireplace,  and 
whether  the  paraffin  oil  can  in  the  corner  harmonised 
well  with  the  carpet.  It  was  like  a  breath  of  fresh  air 
to  meet  Kent  again. 

Suddenly  he  pointed  to  her  plate. 

"  You  are  not  eating  anything." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,"  said  Clytie  with  some  demure- 
ness. 

"  But  if  you  have  not  had  your  evening  meal,  you'll 
get  faint.  What  did  you  come  down  for,  if  you  merely 
wanted  to  pick  at  the  wing  of  a  chicken  and  to  put 
hardly  any  of  it  into  your  mouth  ?" 

Then  Clytie  burst  out  into  merry  laughter.  He  was 
so  downright  and  honest.  Just  the  same  as  ever. 

"  Oh,  you  foolish  Kent !  I  should  have  thought 
even  you  could  have  invented  that." 

"  Did  you  really  want  to  see  me  ?  "  he  asked,  bright- 
ening. 

"  Why,  of  course  !  Do  you  suppose  I  am  devoid  of 
human  attributes?" 

This  brought  them  nearer  than  they  had  been  since 
the  time  that  Kent  realised  he  loved  her.  To  Kent  this 
meeting  was  enchantment.  To  see  her  sitting  by  him, 
bright,  laughing,  her  old  self,  was  enough  to  make  him 
lose  sense  of  the  past  eighteen  months  of  hopeless  long- 
ing. He  thought  to  himself  that  it  was  better  she  had 
not  learned,  since  her  ignorance  gave  him  this  sweet 
half  hour. 

"  I  suppose  we  must  be  going  upstairs  soon,"  she  said, 
with  a  little  wistful  wrinkling  of  her  forehead.  "  When 
shall  I  see  you  again  ?  " 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  257 

Kent  started  at  the  question.  It  troubled  him.  He 
did  not  know  what  answer  to  make. 

"Within  less  than  another  year,  I  hope,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Kent.  We  mustn't  be  strangers  any  more. 
It's  not  good  for  us.  Would  you  care  about  seeing  me 
very  often  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  coming  to  call  upon  you,"  he  replied 
bluntly. 

The  actual  words  were  ungracious.  But  there  was  a 
flash  of  eager  longing  in  his  eyes  that  lent  the  words  a 
subtle  meaning.  And  Clytie  rose  from  the  table  with  a 
little  gasp  of  pain  as  the  truth  burst  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  Kent,  Kent  !  "  she  cried,  greatly  moved. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  this  time  there  was  no  mistake. 
He  knew  that  she  had  guessed.  But  with  a  great  effort 
he  evaded  the  appeal. 

"  No  ;  I  can't  come  to  your  house  to  see  you,"  he  said 
huskily.  "  There  you  are  Mrs.  Hammerdyke,  and  I 
shouldn't  know  you.  Your  home  is  full  of  interests  and 
associations  in  which  I  could  only  be  a  stranger  and  an 
intruder.  To  me  you  are  Clytie,  the  Clytie  whose  daily 
life  I  used  to  share — and  only  as  Clytie  can  I  bear  to  see 
you." 

"  Would  it  help  you  to  see  me  as  Clytie  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  dearly,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  can  always  come  in  to  the  studio  when  I 
am  with  Winifred,  and  I  shall  always  be  here  on  Sunday 
evenings.  Don't  you  think  I  want  to  see  you  too — as 
Clytie  ! " 

"  Thank  you.  Thank  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
taking  her  hand.  "  Now  it  is  time  for  us  to  go  upstairs." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

EACH  lay  awake  that  night,  thinking.  To  Clytie  the 
revelation  of  Kent's  love  was  dazing.  The  sense  of  her 
own  dulness  in  never  having  pierced  the  heart  of  his 
mystery  was  even  more  confounding.  Why  should  she 
have  divined  suddenly  the  meaning  of  the  light  in  his 
eyes,  on  this  first  meeting  after  their  eighteen  months  of 
separation,  when  she  had  been  blind  to  it  before  ?  She 
only  half  guessed  as  yet  why  he  had  not  told  her,  but 
she  saw  that  it  must  have  arisen  from  a  rare,  strange 
delicacy  in  his  nature  differentiating  him  from  all  other 
men  that  she  had  known.  Her  heart  went  out  in  pity 
for  him. 

"  How  he  must  have  suffered  !  "  she  repeated  over  and 
over  to  herself.  And  then  scenes  between  them  came 
before  her  mind  and  became  clear  in  the  light  of  this 
revelation  :  the  strange  suppressed  interview  after  her 
arrival  from  Durdleham  ;  the  last  evening  he  had  spent 
in  London  before  going  abroad,  when  he  had  lit  her 
fire,  and  she  had  gone  up  to  bid  him  farewell.  How  had 
her  ears  been  so  dull  as  not  to  detect  the  tremor  in  his 
voice  when,  after  kissing  her  hand,  he  had  said  :  "You 
are  my  very  dear  lady  whom  I  will  serve  to  the  hour  of 
my  death  "  ? 

And  then  a  little  hissing  snake  of  a  thought  formed 
itself  into  a  reply  ;  and  she  shrank  up  together  with  a 
slight  convulsive  shiver  as  if  something  foul  had  touched 
her. 

After  that  she  could  not  sleep.  She  got  up,  lit  her 
candle,  and  took  a  book  at  random  from  her  shelves.  It 
was  her  well-worn,  girlish  Globe  Shakespeare,  one  of  the 
books  she  had  surreptitiously  procured  when  the  family 
Bowdler  was  included  in  the  category  of  formulas 
against  which  she  revolted.  She  took  it  back  to  bed  with 
her  and  commenced  reading  where  it  had  chanced  to 


AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  259 

open.     The  first  words  that  met  her  eye  seemed  like  a 
voice  from  the  other  world  : 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But  while  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  clothe  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

They  followed  so  closely  on  the  track  of  her  own 
shuddering  thought  that  she  could  read  no  more.  She 
blew  out  her  candle,  and  remained  awake,  staring  into 
the  darkness,  until  the  gray  dawn  filtered  through  the 
blinds,  and  she  fell  asleep. 

Nor  was  Kent  more  restful.  He  had  battled  with  his 
love,  and  with  a  strong  man's  will  had  brought  it  under 
subjection,  making  it  minister  to  his  happiness  in  spite 
of  torturing  longings  instead  of  allowing  it  to  darken 
his  life.  It  had  awakened  him  to  a  sense  of  a  world  of 
beautiful  things,  given  him  a  deeper  understanding  and 
a  wider  sympathy  than  he  had  before.  For  him  truly 
might  it  be  said  that  to  love  her  was  a  liberal  education. 
It  gave  him  the  key  to  the  knowledge  and  appreciation 
of  women,  drew  him  from  his  seclusion  into  the  general 
society  he  had  formerly  avoided.  A  feminine  conclusion 
which  he  would  once  have  pooh-poohed  as  weak  and 
illogical  struck  him  now  with  its  intuitive  subtlety  and 
delicacy  of  point.  He  learned  that  what  the  essentially 
feminine  mind  lacks  in  breadth  it  gains  in  fineness,  and 
he  was  amazed  to  discover  what  a  sensitive  touch  upon 
life  is  possessed  by  a  cultivated  woman.  And  mingled 
with  this  new  charm  was  another  of  an  esoteric  kind. 
No  woman  he  met  had  all  the  fascinations  of  Clytie,  but 
every  woman  seemed  to  possess  one  of  them.  He  confided 
this  once  in  a  roundabout  way  to  Wither,  who  laughed,  and 
told  him  he  was  growing  too  susceptible  and  would  find 
himself  married  one  of  these  days.  But  Kent  shook  his 
head.  "  I  could  only  find  a  Clytie  among  them  by  mar- 
rying the  whole  sex  and  making  an  extract  of  it,"  he 
said  with  conviction.  For  not  only  did  the  higher  quali- 
ties of  woman's  nature  manifest  themselves  to  him,  but 
the  minor  graces  of  manner  and  appearance  appealed  to 
that  side  of  his  aesthetic  temperament  that  had  hitherto 
been  under  a  cloud.  It  occurred  to  him  then  that  he 
had  been  living  with  half  his  faculties.  Accordingly 


260  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

he  felt  a  peculiar  satisfaction  in  his  new  powers  of  per- 
ception. 

It  had  cost  him  a  pang  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  the 
bright  society  that  Mrs.  Farquharson  gathered  round 
her.  At  first  he  had  given  up  going  to  Harley  Street 
through  fear  of  meeting  Clytie,  for  he  shrank  from  meet- 
ing her  under  the  new  conditions.  Then  as  time  passed 
on,  and  he  accustomed  himself  to  the  idea  of  Clytie  as  a 
married  woman  of  fashion,  he  wished  to  go,  but  shyness 
held  him  back.  It  would  look  strange  to  resume  visit- 
ing suddenly  after  his  apparent  rudeness  and  neglect. 
Probably  the  Farquharsons  would  never  have  seen  him 
again  had  not  George  met  him  at  a  learned  society's 
meeting,  and  given  him  a  hearty  and  pressing  invitation. 

But  there  was  a  large  though  somewhat  scattered 
society  in  which,  although  the  rarest  of  visitors,  he  had 
always  been  welcome.  And  now  he  not  only  mixed 
assiduously  in  this,  thereby  causing  many  laughing  con- 
jectures as  to  the  reason  of  his  social  reformation,  but  he 
volunteered  occasionally  to  go  out  with  Wither,  whose 
circle  of  acquaintance,  like  Sam  Weller's  knowledge  of 
London,  was  extensive  and  peculiar.  A  revolution  was 
thus  effected  in  Kent's  habits,  and  to  a  certain  extent  in 
his  mode  of  thought.  A  new  zest  was  given  to  life  in 
this  enlargement  of  his  horizon.  And  all  through  his 
love  of  Clytie.  The  awakening  of  the  dormant  sex 
principle  had  strengthened  his  nature,  extended  his 
humanity  in  depth  and  breadth.  In  spite  of  a  hopeless, 
passionate  love  Kent  was  still  a  happy  man. 

And  now  this  spell  of  her  influence  was  broken,  or  at 
least  modified.  He  had  seen  her,  felt  the  softness  of  her 
voice,  the  kindliness  of  her  eyes.  And  he  had  unwit- 
tingly betrayed  his  secret.  She  knew  that  he  loved  her. 
She  pitied  him,  promised  that  he  should  see  her 
frequently  on  the  basis  of  the  old  friendship.  It  was 
kind  and  generous,  he  thought,  to  step  down  from  the 
height  of  her  wedded  felicity  to  comfort  him  with  her 
friendship  and  sympathy.  An  unexpected  happiness 
was  in  store  for  him.  Perhaps,  after  all,  his  loyalty  and 
devotion  might  be  of  some  use  to  her. 

But  strong,  loyal  man  as  he  was,  this  sudden  meet- 
ins:  troubled  him.  If  only  he  had  spoken  at  once, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  261 

before  the  other  had  come  upon  the  scene,  she  might 
have  been  won  to  love  him.  The  old  torturing  regrets 
came  upon  him,  and  he  tossed  sleeplessly  on  his  bed. 
The  love  which,  through  its  very  hopelessness,  had  all 
these  months  given  him  peace  and  a  measure  of  happi- 
ness now  burst  forth  again  tumultuously.  It  became  a 
miserable  farce  to  lie  awake  in  the  darkness.  He  rose, 
went  into  his  sitting-room  and  lit  the  gas.  Then  he  sat 
down  at  his  writing  space,  and,  burying  his  face  in  his 
hands,  remained  for  some  time  in  great  pain  of  thought. 
At  last  his  eye  fell  upon  some  notepaper  lying  invitingly 
on  his  blotting-pad.  An  idea  struck  him.  He  would 
write  to  her.  He  covered  four  sides  with  a  passionate 
outburst  of  his  love,  writing  wildly,  unthinkingly,  as  men 
must  write  in  moments  of  overpowering  emotion.  Then 
he  tore  up  the  sheet  and  began  afresh.  The  summer 
morning  light  was  streaming  into  the  room  through  the 
curtainless  window,  mingling  oddly  with  the  yellow  gas, 
when  Kent  enclosed  and  addressed  the  first  letter  to 
Clytie  in  which  he  told  her  of  his  love.  He  got  up,  stiff 
from  his  long  sitting  and  somewhat  exhausted,  and  going 
to  bed,  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  until  it  was  his  usual 
hour  for  rising. 

The  next  afternoon  when  Clytie  returned  from  a  drive 
she  found  the  letter  awaiting  her.  She  took  it  up  to  her 
room,  and  there,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  read  it 
with  conflicting  feelings.  It  ran  as  follows  : 

MY  DEAR  CLYTIE  : 

You  know  my  secret.  I  think  so.  I  saw  it  in  your  face.  But  if  I 
was  mistaken,  let  me  tell  it  to  you  in  so  many  words  ;  and  as  I  bring  to 
you  what  is  best  and  truest  in  me,  it  will  neither  dishonour  me  to  tell 
it  nor  you  to  hear  it.  And  as  you  in  your  goodness  offer  me  a  resump- 
tion of  the  old  friendship,  I  must  say  it  once  and  for  all.  I  love  you, 
Clytie,  with  all  the  strength  of  a  man  who  has  allowed  women  to  take 
up  very  little  part  in  his  life.  I  loved  you  long  before  I  knew  it. 
It  grew  up  gradually  during  our  intercourse,  and  only  one  day  when  you 
were  at  Durdleham  a  little,  little  chance  circumstance  revealed  to  me 
that  you  were  not  only  the  grand,  sweet  friend,  but  the  woman  that  I 
passionately  loved.  And  I  could  not  tell  you  for  fear  of  paining  you 
and  destroying  our  friendship— for  what  was  I  to  love  you  ?  And  I 
dreaded  lest  you  should  think  me  disloyal  to  the  trust  between  us. 
And  at  last  I  came,  resolved  to  speak,  and  it  was  too  late.  Winifred 
can  tell  you. 


262  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

From  that  time  I  have  carried  my  love  with  me  as  the  vivifying 
principle  of  my  life.  I  thought  you  would  never  know,  but  now  I 
have  betrayed  myself. 

Will  it  not  pain  you  too  much  in  your  present  happiness  to  see  me 
under  this  new  guise  ?  Ah,  Clytie  !  tell  me  frankly  as  you  always  used 
to  do. 

I  shall  never,  never  willingly  trouble  the  serenity  of  your  life.  I 
love  you  too  sincerely,  too  devotedly  ;  and  my  love  makes  me  myself 
too  happy.  If  you  will  meet  me  now  and  again  after  this,  freely,  at 
the  houses  of  our  common  friends,  you  shall  only  see  the  old  Kent 
who  now  and  then  scolded  you,  sometimes  helped  you,  and  who  always 
held  you  dearer  and  higher  and  grander  than  all  other  women  ;  and 
yet  you  must  let  yourself  be  loved — that  I  cannot  help.  It  is  fused 
into  my  being,  and  it  gives  me  happiness  in  my  own  way.  I  am  an 
oddity,  you  know,  Clytie,  as  you  yourself  have  called  me,  and  oddities 
have  their  little  privileges,  and  if  you  know  that  it  makes  my  happi- 
ness, and  does  not  grudge  you  yours,  you  will  not  find  it  hard  to  be 
loved. 

If  you  were  a  woman  of  ordinary  conventional  ideas,  I  could  not 
tell  you  this.  •  You  would  misunderstand  it. 

There  seems  but  little  I  could  do  for  you — and  I  would  do  so  much. 
But  life  is  full  of  strange  chances,  and  perhaps  my  chance  of  serving 
you  may  come,  and  would  then  I  could  die  for  you  to  save  you  an 
hour's  pain. 

Yours  in  all  devotion, 

KENT. 

Clytie  read  the  letter  over  several  times.  At  first  the 
tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat. 
This  simple,  unrequiring  love  soothed  her  and  smote 
her  at  once.  The  largeness  and  tenderness  of  the  man's 
nature  came  to  her  almost  as  a  revelation.  What  was 
there  in  her  worthy  of  this  sacrifice  ?  How  could  she 
tell  him,  she  thought  in  her  broken  pride,  that  she  had 
failed  miserably,  wretchedly,  that  she  had  forsaken  the 
higher  for  the  lower,  that  this  selfless  love  of  his  was  as 
far  above  the  sudden  intoxication  that  had  degraded 
her  as  the  spirit  is  above  the  flesh  ?  She  had  thrown 
away  the  best,  like  the  shepherd  in  the  German  legend, 
who,  in  the  sensuous  heart-leap  at  the  sight  of  the  glitter- 
ing treasure,  disregarded  the  voice,  "  Forget  not  the  best," 
and  dropped  and  trampled  underfoot  the  little  blue 
flower  that  opened  the  enchanted  hillside.  How  could 
she  tell  him  that? 

Then,  too,  the  note  of  unconscious  irony  in  his  letter 
jarred  through  her  painfully.  "  Her  present  happi- 
ness ! " 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  263 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  cried  at  last.  "  If  he  only  knew 
how  much  need  I  have  of  happiness  !  " 

And  then  the  strength  that  had  kept  the  tears  back 
for  all  these  latter  months  of  weariness  and  disillusion 
suddenly  forsook  her,  and  turning  as  she  sat,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  bed  in  a  great  agony  of  sobbing. 

A  little  later  she  wrote  Kent  the  following  reply  : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  KENT  : 

I  am  not  worthy  of  such  devotion.  I  can  only  wonder  at  it  and 
accept  it  humbly  and  gratefully.  Words  like  these  of  yours  I  never 
could  misunderstand,  Kent.  If  it  is  a  pleasure  to  you  to  see  me,  you 
need,  not  shun  me  any  more.  CLYTIE. 

Kent  went  into  the  studio  on  Monday  to  tell  Wini- 
fred of  the  meeting  ;  on  Tuesday,  with  a  vague  hope  of 
seeing  Clytie  ;  on  Wednesday,  when  Winifred  herself 
expected  her,  but  she  did  not  come.  On  Thursday,  how- 
ever, he  heard  her  voice  from  outside  the  studio  door, 
and  his  heart  gave  a  great  throb.  He  entered  and  found 
himself  once  more  in  her  presence.  Neither  spoke  of 
the  letters  that  had  passed  between  them,  but  the  faintest 
pressure  of  the  hand  and  a  glance  from  her  eyes  told 
him  that  she  understood. 

After  that  they  met  frequently — on  Sunday  evenings 
at  the  Farquharsons',  during  the  week  in  the  studio, 
where  for  some  months  Clytie  had  taken  to  coming  very 
frequently  for  the  comfort  of  seeing  Winifred.  Clytie 
maintained  her  usual  habits ;  Kent,  as  far  as  was  possi- 
ble, resumed  his  old  ones.  Sometimes  it  was  strangely 
like  the  old  days.  With  a  little  longing,  perhaps,  to  add 
to  the  illusion,  and  also  to  give  herself  some  employment 
while  Winifred  worked,  Clytie  began  a  picture,  choosing 
in  a  humorous  tenderness  to  take  Winnie  as  her  model. 
The  picture  never  was  completed,  for  Clytie  had  not  the 
temperament  to  do  justice  to  the  slender  figure  in  its 
quiet  summer  dress,  and  to  the  soft,  dark  face  bent  so 
earnestly  over  the  palette  and  sheaf  of  brushes.  But 
while  the  painting  of  it  lasted  it  gave  a  comfortable  air 
of  reality  to  the  revival.  It  was  new  life  to  Kent  to 
come  in  on  his  return  and  once  more  receive  Clytie's 
friendly  nod  as  she  stood  by  the  easel,  a  painting-apron 
over  her  dainty  dress,  and  her  hands  smudged  with  char- 


264  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

coal  or  daubs  of  paint.  He  did  not  think  much  of  the 
portrait,  and  he  told  her  so  with  laughing  frankness. 
But  he  divined  why  she  was  doing  it,  and  while  criticis- 
ing, encouraged  her  to  proceed.  His  arrival,  however, 
as  it  always  had  been,  was  a  signal  for  the  cessation  of 
work.  Then  Winifred  cleaned  the  brushes  and  put  them 
in  the  trays,  and  gathered  up  the  tubes  and  rags  which 
Clytie,  with  less  sense  of  tidiness,  had  strewed  around  her, 
and  Clytie  drew  out  the  basket-table  and  rang  the  bell 
for  Mrs.  Gurkins  to  bring  up  the  tea.  Clytie  had  left 
behind  her  all  her  small  domestic  articles  for  Winnie's 
use  in  the  studio.  So  there  was  the  familiar  tea-service, 
the  Crown-Derby  cups  and  apostle  spoons, — a  piece  of 
wicked  extravagance  on  Clytie's  part  in  times  gone  by, — 
the  gray  Japanese  teapot  whose  wicker  handle  had  still 
to  be  delicately  fingered,  and  the  little  glass  sugar-bowl 
that  looked  so  plebeian  beside  the  aristocratic  porcelain. 
Scarcely  anything  in  the  studio  had  been  changed.  The 
charcoal  caricatures  on  the  walls  were  as  sacred  in  Wini- 
fred's eyes  as  if  they  had  been  frescoes  by  old  Italian 
masters,  and  she  had  issued  strict  injunctions  to  spring- 
cleaners  to  leave  them  intact.  Even  Clytie's  easel  was 
there  now.  Kent  lived  for  these  afternoons. 

One  day  Kent  was  going  to  dine  with  Wither  and 
Fairfax.  As  his  road  to  a  certain  point  was  the  same  as 
Clytie's,  they  walked  along  together.  This  was  almost 
the  first  occasion  on  which  they  were  quite  alone  to- 
gether. He  reminded  her  casually  of  the  fact. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  And  I  have  been  wanting  to 
see  you  by  yourself.  I  have  not  thanked  you  for  your 
letter.  But  you  do  see  that  I  appreciate  it,  don't 
you  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,  since  I  pleased 
myself  in  writing  it.  The  thanks  are  from  me  to  you  for 
treating  it  as  you  have  done." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Clytie,  shaking  her  head  and  looking 
before  her.  "  You  can't  understand, — and  perhaps  it  is 
better  you  shouldn't, — what  a  letter  like  that  means  to  a 
woman.  Well,  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  me.  To  tell  you 
so  is  the  only  return  I  can  make  you." 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  it,"  said  Kent.  "  I  could  not 
bear  to  have  you  as  a  friend  under  false  pretences." 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  265 

After  they  had  walked  a  few  steps  in  silence  she  con- 
tinued the  subject. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  forget 
all  about  me,  and  look  around  for  someone  who  can 
make  you  happy — really  happy  ? " 

"  I'd  have  to  live  till  the  day  of  judgment  to  find  her," 
said  Kent  bluntly. 

"  That's  ridiculous,  Kent.  But  can't  you  feel  that  it 
sometimes  pains  me  to  see  you  sacrificing  your  life  for 
me?" 

"  I  am  not  sacrificing  my  life,"  he  answered  cheerfully. 
"  Besides,  I  don't  quite  see  what  it  has  got  to  do  with 
you — in  one  sense.  I  love  you,  and  I  couldn't  love  any- 
body else  for  all  the  joys  in  creation.  Thank  God,  you 
are  broad-minded  enough  to  let  me  tell  you  this  without 
any  chance  of  misconstruction." 

"  Ah  !  That's  all  very  well,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
sigh.  "  If  I  were  a  saint,  I  might  placidly  accept  it  as  my 
due.  Being  only  a  woman,  and  that  none  of  the  best,  it 
seems  such  a  waste  of  good  love,  Kent,  and  love  is  a  rare, 
rare  thing  in  the  world." 

"  But  it  would  go  a-begging  if  you  did  not  have  it," 
he  replied,  laughing.  "Come,  don't  let  us  say  anything 
more  about  it.  You  are  happy  with  your  own  home 
and  interests,  and  I  am  happy  in  seeing  you  and  having 
your  friendship.  Of  course  I  have  suffered  a  bit,  but 
it's  all  over  now." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said.  "  Life  seems  to  be  made  up  of 
that." 

"  Of  what  ? " 

"  Suffering." 

He  waved  an  energetic  protest  with  his  ash  stick. 

"  Since  when  have  you  grown  a  pessimist  ?  I  don't 
believe  in  it.  Life  is  made  up  of  responsibilities  and 
interests.  There's  suffering  in  it  of  course  ;  but  there 
are  alleviations.  It's  like  cold  and  frost.  If  you  stood 
up  without  a  rag  on  in  the  snow  you'd  think  the  world 
was  made  of  nothing  else  but  frost.  But  you  put  on  warm 
clothing  and  defy  it." 

"  But  the  poor,  ill-clad,  shivering  wretches — what  about 
them?" 

"  I'm  talking  of  people  with  average  material  wealth," 


266  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

he  replied.  "  That's  just  it.  So  can  the  people  of  ordi- 
nary moral  wealth  clothe  themselves  against  suffering. 
I  don't  like  the  morbid  view  of  things.  It  doesn't  do 
any  good.  Do  you  remember  a  passage  in  Longfellow's 
'  Hyperion  ' — a  criticism  of  two  German  poets — '  melan- 
choly gentlemen  to  whom  life  was  only  a  dismal  swamp, 
upon  whose  margin  they  walked  with  cambric  handker- 
chiefs in  their  hands,  sobbing  and  sighing,  and  making 
signals  to  Death  to  come  and  ferry  them  over  the  lake'  ? 
It's  a  bit  fierce  on  your  pessimists  ;  but  it's  a  whole- 
some little  passage  to  remember." 

A  little  while  after  this  they  parted.  Kent  walked  on, 
swinging  his  stick,  convinced  of  Clytie's  happiness,  yet 
wondering  at  her  unusual  note  of  pessimism,  and  Clytie 
called  a  cab,  as  she  was  late,  and  drove  home  with  a 
world  of  strange  and  troubling  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ON  the  ist  of  August  Clytie  received  a  visit  from  the 
boy  Jack,  who  had  just  come  to  London  for  his  summer 
holiday.  He  had  grown  greatly  during  the  past  year, 
had  filled  out.  The  taint  of  the  street  had  gone  from 
him  and  he  was  becoming  civilised.  Clytie  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  looked  at  him  curiously  as  he  sat,  in  all 
the  self-consciousness  of  a  newly  awakened  sense  of  pro- 
priety, upon  the  edge  of  his  seat,  twirling  his  glengarry 
cap.  As  an  artistic  object  he  had  deteriorated.  The 
motive  of  his  worth  in  that  respect  had  gone  with  the 
picturesqueness  of  his  old  garments  and  dirt  and  wild 
elf  locks  ;  but  he  was  handsome  in  spite  of  his  cropped 
brown  hair  and  the  severity  of  his  attire.  Indeed  there 
was  something  incongruous  in  the  corduroy  uniform  and 
the  refinement  of  his  face,  with  its  bright  dark  eyes  and 
finely  cut  lips  that  disclosed  a  perfect  row  of  white,  even 
teeth.  And  yet  there  was  cruelty  around  the  mouth,  the 
sublimated  essence  of  the  fierce  savagery  that  Clytie  had 
impressed  upon  her  famous  picture.  He  had  been  trans- 
formed from  the  animal  into  the  human  being,  it  is  true  ; 
but  that  does  not  necessarily  imply  that  the  human 
being  does  not  retain  many  of  the  passions  of  the  animal. 
With  the  old  Jack  the  untamable  was  degradingly  con- 
fused with  lowness,  but  it  shone  out  all  the  clearer  now 
by  reason  of  the  humanising  of  his  face.  Clytie  noted 
all  this  as  they  talked  together. 

"  You  are  getting  quite  a  man,"  she  said.  "When  are 
you  leaving  school  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Kent  says  I'm  to  stay  there  another  year," 
replied  Jack.  "  Then  I'm  to  be  'prenticed." 

"To  a  joiner  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Jack.  And  after  he  had  scraped 
a  little  with  his  toe  on  the  ground  he  looked  up  and 
added  :  "  Do  you  think  I  needn't  be  a  joiner  if  I  didn't 
want  to  ? " 

267 


268  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  be  what  you  like, 
Jack." 

"Really!"  and  his  face  brightened.  "I  have  been 
thinking  I  should  like  to  be  something  else." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  A  carver  and  gilder,"  said  Jack  bashfully. 

"Where  do  the  especial  charms  of  that  trade  come 
in  ?"  asked  Clyde,  laughing. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Jack  ;  "  I  only  thought  it." 

There  was  a  touch  of  pique  in  his  voice.  Clytie 
noticed  it,  saw  that  she  had  wounded  susceptibilities. 

"  Tell  me,  Jack,  why  you  want  to  be  a  carver  and 
gilder." 

"  I  could  make  all  the  picture-frames  for  you  and 
Miss  Marchpane,"  he  replied. 

"  Thank  you,  Jack,"  said  Clytie,  touched  at  the  boyish 
idea.  "  But  perhaps  we'll  make  you  something  better 
than  a  carver  or  gilder.  I  don't  know  what  you  could 
be.  What  could  we  make  of  you  ? " 

A  vague  idea  of  raising  Jack  above  the  artisan  level 
had  occurred  to  her  during  her  scrutiny  of  his  face.  He 
was  not  an  ordinary  creature.  That  he  should  spend 
his  life  in  the  dull,  comnponplace  atmosphere  of  the 
British  workman  seemed  a  waste  of  possibilities.  There 
are  millions  who  possess  just  the  qualifications  for  hew- 
ers of  wood  and  drawers  of  water.  Why  should  a  finer 
organisation  not  be  cultivated,  trained,  put  into  an 
environment  where  there  are  conditions  for  free  develop- 
ment ?  But  whether  the  boy  was  a  potential  admiral, 
Lord  Chancellor,  or  novelist  she  could  not  determine. 
That  was  why  she  asked  the  question,  "  What  could  we 
make  of  you  ?  "  somewhat  pathetically.  Jack  shook  his 
head  in  reply.  He  had  learned  at  school  that  life  was  a 
serious  thing  terminating  in  apprenticeship. 

"I've  got  to  learn  a  trade,"  he  replied  after  a  little, 
"  and  I'd  sooner  be  a  carver  and  gilder  than  anything 
else." 

"  But  suppose  a  good  fairy  were  to  come,  Jack,"  per- 
sisted Clytie,  "  and  say  that  you  were  not  to  learn  a 
trade,  or  that,  if  you  did  begin,  you  would  work  your 
way  out  of  it,  and  become  a  great  man,  and  do  glorious 
things  in  the  world — suppose  you  were  able  to  choose  to 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  269 

be  anything  you  liked — what  do  you  think  you  would 
be  ?     Tell  me — something  great  and  bright  and  noble  !  " 

She  had  grown  animated  with  her  enthusiasm,  and 
leaned  forward,  with  her  chin  raised  and  lips  parted — 
her  attitude  in  moments  of  exaltation.  The  boy  looked 
at  her  for  a  few  seconds,  catching  her  spirit.  Some- 
thing was  at  work  within  him  too,  for  his  eyes  glowed, 
and  his  breath  came  quickly. 

"  There  is  something,  Jack.     Tell  me  what  it  is  !  " 

"  I'd  like  to  be  a  soldier  like  my  father,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  the  extravagant,  glowing  fancies  that  had 
haunted  him  for  six  months  thus  finding  half-choked 
expression. 

"Your  father?"  asked  Clytie,  taken  aback,  and 
diverging  into  the  side  track  of  her  astonishment.  "  I 
never  knew  you  had — I  mean,  I  thought  you  did  not 
know  anything  at  all  about  him.  You  used  not  to  tell 
me  the  truth,  then,  Jack." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  did  not  know  then  !  "  he  cried  eagerly. 
"  It  was  only  when  I  come  here  at  Christmas,  and  you 
was  ill,  so  I  couldn't  tell  you.  He  was  a  soldier,  my 
father,  an  orficer.  And  I  would  like  to  be  an  orficer 
too." 

"  Really,  Jack,  this  is  very  interesting,"  said  Clytie. 
"  Aren't  you  pleased  to  have  a  father  you  can  be  proud 
of  ?  Was  he  a  very  brave  man  ? " 

"  He  had  a  sword,"  said  Jack  proudly,  as  if  that  was 
proof  positive  of  valour. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  in  your  old  place  on  the  hearth- 
rug and  tell  me  all  about  him." 

The  boy  did  as  he  was  bidden,  sinking  somewhat 
shyly  at  first  on  to  the  great  bearskin  at  Clytie's  feet. 
But  after  a  while  he  huddled  himself  up  in  his  old 
posture. 

"  Mother  didn't  tell  me  much,"  he  said  in  answer  to  a 
question  of  Clytie's.  "  I  was  looking  in  a  chest  of 
drawers  of  mother's,  and  I  see  a  photograph — an  orficer — 
all  over  strings  and  buttons  and  a  sword  and  great  big 
moustaches.  And  I  come  to  mother  and  says  :  '  Who's 
this?'  and  she  says:  'That's  your  father.'  And  then 
she  snatched  it  out  of  my  hand  and  hit  me  a  clout  on 
the  head  for  going  to  her  drawer.  She  wouldn't  tell 


270  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

me  no  more  ;  but  I  know  he  was  an  orficer  because  he's 
got  a  star  on  his  collar.  I  think  I  knows  orficers  when  I 
sees  them,"  he  added,  with  the  ci-devant  street  urchin's 
knowledge  of  life.  "  And  I  go  and  look  at  him  now 
when  mother  isn't  by." 

"But  you  shouldn't  go  to  your  mother's  private 
drawers,"  said  Clytie  by  way  of  moral  precept. 

"  I've  got  as  much  right  to  look  at  my  father  as  she 
has,"  replied  Jack  in  an  injured  tone,  whereat  Clytie 
laughed  a  little. 

"  You  are  an  odd  youth.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  an 
officer  right  away.  But  I  am  afraid  I  can't." 

"  I  believe  you  could,"  said  Jack. 

There  was  a  world  of  childish  faith  in  the  remark  and 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  delivered.  Clytie  was  both 
touched  and  saddened.  She  regretted  that  she  had 
raised  hopes  in  the  boy  that  from  the  nature  of  things 
were  doomed  to  disappointment.  The  overpowering 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  her  sudden  visionary  aspirations 
for  Jack's  future  ranged  themselves  before  her  mind. 
So  it  was  with  a  sigh  she  answered  his  outburst  of  faith. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't,  Jack,"  she  repeated.  "  But  you 
yourself  can  do  a  great  deal.  If  you  like,  one  of  these 
days  when  you  are  much  older,  you  can  enlist  in  the 
army,  and  then  throw  your  soul  into  your  duties,  and 
keep  before  you  at  every  minute  of  the  day  the  words, 
"  I  am  going  to  be  an  officer,"  and  if  you  do  this  in- 
tensely, and  never  lose  sight  of  it,  you  will  succeed. 
That's  the  only  way.  They  call  it  getting  a  commission 
through  the  ranks.  But  between  now  and  then  there 
are  a  great  many  years,  and  I'll  do  all  I  can  for  you, 
Jack.  Yet,  perhaps,  after  all,  you'd  be  a  happier  and 
more  useful  man  as  a  carver  and  gilder.  Who  knows  !  " 

Jack  did  not  heed  the  pessimism  of  the  peroration. 
His  mind  was  aflame  withythe  possibilities  of  becoming 
an  officer  and  he  took  his  leave  in  high  spirits. 

Clytie  sat  for  a  little  musing  over  the  solution  of  the 
problem  that  had  troubled  her  in  the  first  days  of  her 
acquaintance  with  Jack.  She  was  gratified  at  her  intui- 
tions having  proved  correct.  But  there  was  still  much 
that  was  dark  to  her.  The  physiological  side  of  the 
question,  however,  was  shadowed  at  present  by  more 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  271 

practical  considerations.  Why  could  she  not  find  a 
means  of  giving  Jack  a  chance  in  life?  She  looked 
ahead  at  the  years  to  come,  as  she  often  had  done  since 
that  dark  December  morning,  and  a  pain  came  at  her 
heart  as  she  beheld  their  blankness.  And  now  fate  had 
thrown  across  her  path  this  drifting  spar  of  humanity. 
Jack  was  hers  if  she  chose  to  claim  him.  No  one  would 
dispute  with  her  the  privilege. 

After  luncheon  she  walked  to  the  King's  Road  and 
sat  with  Winifred,  in  the  hope  that  Kent  would  look  in  on 
his  way  upstairs.  She  wanted  to  take  counsel  with  him. 
His  sturdy  common  sense  would  help  her.  She  did  not 
confide  her  vague  scheme  to  Winifred,  because  Winifred 
would  have  called  her  a  darling,  and  put  her  arms  round 
her  neck,  and  made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  meditating 
something  peculiarly  noble.  So  she  waited  for  Kent's 
sobering  presence. 

He  came  in  at  his  customary  hour,  bearing  a  paper 
bag  of  peaches  which  he  had  brought  for  Winifred.  He 
had  carried  them  from  some  distance  through  the  streets, 
and  there  were  little  wet  stains  on  the  paper.  But  when 
the  fruit  was  put  on  a  plate  beside  the  bread  and  butter 
on  a  flap  of  the  wickerwork  afternoon  tea  table  it  looked 
fresh  and  inviting.  This  sudden  return  of  their  old 
intimacy  was  delightful  to  all  three  of  them,  and  they 
chatted  during  tea  as  if  nothing  had  happened  to 
break  it. 

Then  Clytie  propounded  her  case,  and  they  formed 
themselves  into  a  committee  to  consider  it. 

"  I  don't  like  social  experiments,"  said  Kent.  "  It's 
constituting  one's  self  a  Providence  without  Providence's 
resources.  If  one  bit  of  the  machinery  fails,  the  whole 
thing  is  apt  to  go  wrong." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  experiment !  "  cried  Clytie.  "  It's 
quite  wicked  of  you  to  say  so." 

"How  can  it  be  otherwise?"  asked  Kent.  "You 
want  to  put  an  industrial  school  boy  of  the  most  uncon- 
ventional type  and  upbringing  into  the  most  caste-bound, 
conventional  profession  under  the  sun.  It's  like  putting 
a  bit  of  metallic  sodium  into  water.  A  pretty  experi- 
ment, though  rather  common ;  but  the  result  is  an 
explosion." 


272  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  But  he  must  be  trained  and  made  a  gentleman  first," 
cried  Winifred,  coming  to  Clytie's  assistance. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Clytie.  "  Should  he  ever  be  able 
to  get  into  the  army,  he  will  be  by  that  time  quite  a 
different  being  to  what  he  is  now." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  give  him  a  rigid,  conventional 
training,  and  so  spoil  him,"  said  Kent. 

"  It  wouldn't  spoil  him  to  learn  to  speak  the  Queen's 
English  and  the  use  of  his  knife  and  fork,"  said  Clytie 
a  little  defiantly. 

"  He'd  have  to  learn  more  than  that.  Besides,  how  is 
he  to  be  taught  ?  " 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  you  for  advice  about." 

Kent  mused  for  a  moment  and  stroked  his  beard. 

"  Are  you  very  much  bent  upon  this  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  can  only  see  one  way." 

«  Well— and  that  ? " 

"  Adopt  him,"  said  Kent.  "  An  industrial  school  boy 
can  be  run  by  a  committee — the  experiment  is  not  very 
dangerous,  but  a  conventional  gentleman  must  have  con- 
ventional references." 

His  first  words  struck  the  chord  she  had  shrunk  from 
striking  herself.  It  was  the  formulated  suggestion  of  a 
vague  desire.  She  was  silent  for  a  little.  Then  Winifred 
in  response  to  a  business  summons  went  out  on  to  the 
landing,  and  Kent  and  Clytie  were  left  alone. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  too  downright  and  have 
hurt  you,"  he  said  concernedly. 

She  shook  her  head  and  glanced  at  him  smilingly. 

"  I  came  to  you  for  common  sense.  You  have  given 
it  me.  And  your  conclusion  is  one  that  I  dared  not  come 
to  myself." 

"  That  you  should  adopt  him  ?  A  reductio  ad 
absurdum!  " 

"  Yes,  I  feel  it.  I  am  not  my  own  mistress  now. 
There  are  difficulties.  Oh,  Kent,  don't  let  me  talk  of 
them!  You  see,  I  came  to  you  for  help— to  no  one 
else." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Clytie,"  said  Kent, 
anxious  at  her  sudden  agitation. 

She  recovered  herself,  womanlike,  and  forced  a  laugh. 


AT    THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  273 

"  If  I  were  a  rich,  lonely  old  woman,  I  might  be  able," 
she  said,  "  but,  you  see,  I'm  not.  No,  no,  I  can't  adopt 
Jack  ;  and  we'll  have  to  run  him  by  a  committee,  what- 
ever happens  to  him." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  decided  ? "  asked  Winifred, 
coming  into  the  room. 

"  That  it  will  be  fairer  to  Jack  to  let  him  work  out  his 
own  salvation,"  said  Kent.  "  Let  him  work  his  way 
through  the  ranks.  If  there  is  anything  in  him  it  will 
come  out.  You  don't  think  me  unkind,  do  you,  Clytie  ?" 

Whereat  Clytie  laughed  honestly  and  Kent  received 
much  consolation. 

They  talked  a  little  longer,  on  indifferent  subjects, 
and  then  at  Winifred's  hour  of  departure  they  all  rose 
together.  Winifred  went  to  the  back  of  the  studio  and 
put  on  her  hat ;  Clytie  and  Kent  moved  slowly  in  the 
direction  of  the  door.  Kent  sighed  a  little. 

"  I  only  seem  to  have  seen  you  for  five  minutes,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  have  told  you  nothing,  but  given  you  com- 
monplace advice." 

"  Had  you  so  much  to  tell  me  ? "  she  asked,  smiling, 
as  his  unformulated  wish  echoed  within  herself.  "  There 
is  no  reason  for  us  to  go  away  because  Winifred  does. 
Would  you  really  like  to  stay  a  little  and  talk  to  me  ? " 

Before  Kent  spoke  Clytie  had  not  the  faintest  thought 
of  doing  this.  But  in  a  flash  came  before  her  the  long 
evening  she  was  to  spend  in  the  great  lonely  house. 
Thornton  rarely  came  home  for  dinner.  He  even  dressed 
at  his  club.  Often  he  slept  there.  On  such  occasions 
the  first  notice  Clytie  received  of  his  absence  was  from 
the  inscrutable  butler,  who  would  come  into  the  studio 
in  the  morning  with  :  "  The  commissionnaire  for  master's 
letters,  ma'am."  Occasionally  three  days  passed  without 
their  meeting.  When  they  did  pass  an  hour  in  each 
other's  company  sometimes  there  was  calm  and  some- 
times storm.  It  depended  upon  his  mood.  As  a 
general  rule  he  was  polite,  even  bright  and  entertaining, 
and  life  with  him  under  these  conditions  was  just  bear- 
able. But  now  the  thought  came  with  some  bitterness  : 
What  did  it  matter  whether  she  was  at  home  by  seven  or 
eight — or  twelve,  for  that  matter  ?  Why  should  she  not 
have  a  cheery  hour  with  Kent  ? 


274  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

His  face  brightened  as  she  made  her  smiling  offer  to 
stay. 

"  It  is  too  good  of  you.  Of  course  I  should  like  to 
have  a  talk  with  you.  But  you — can  you " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  interrupted  lightly.  "  I  am  not  due 
home  at  any  hour.  I  want  to  chat  with  you  myself. 
Winnie  dear,  we  are  going  to  remain  a  little.  Give  me 
the  key  and  I'll  hand  it  to  Mrs.  Gurkins  as  I  go  down. 
I  haven't  asked  you,  but  I  suppose  we  can  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,  darling,"  said  Winnie,  coming  up  and 
giving  her  a  farewell  kiss.  "  I  hate  to  think  the  studio 
isn't  yours." 

So  Winifred  went  away  and  they  remained  as  in  the 
old  days.  The  sudden  association  gave  Clytie  a  pang. 
A  reaction  from  her  enthusiasm  about  Jack  to  weariness 
of  spirit  made  her  sink  back  listlessly  in  her  chair. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Kent,  filling  his  pipe. 
"  You  are  not  looking  yourself.  It  is  this  steaming 
London.  Why  don't  you  go  and  get  some  country  air  ?  " 

"  Oh,  one  place  is  just  the  same  as  another.  It  isn't 
London  and  it  isn't  the  weather.  It  is  the  world  that  is 
out  of  joint,  somehow.  I  am  afraid  I  have  been  moping. 
I  think  I  shall  invest  in  a  cat.  Then  I  can  pour  out  my 
grievances  to  it.  That's  the  best  of  a  cat :  it  never 
mopes.  It  goes  on  purring  cheerfully  so  long  as  it's 
warm  and  well  fed,  and  when  you  feel  paradoxical  it 
never  worries  you  to  explain  yourself.  Do  you  like  cats  ? 
I  forget." 

"  What  are  you  moping  about  ?  "  he  asked  between  the 
first  few  puffs  of  his  kindling  pipe. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  in  that  aggressively  cheerful  tone, 
Kent.  I  have  come  on  all  over  moods,  and  I  want 
comforting." 

"  You  should  work,"  replied  Kent  with  some  self- 
restraint.  "  You  have  hardly  touched  a  brush  in  earnest 
this  year.  It  is  the  claims  of  that  part  of  your  nature 
that  cry  out  if  they  are  not  satisfied.  Why  don't  you 
go  on  painting  ?  What  has  the  fact  of  your  not  having 
to  make  your  living  got  to  do  with  your  art  ?  " 

"  Everything,  in  a  way,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  said  Kent  earnestly.  "  You  are 
not  the  woman  to  neglect  your  art  out  of  pure  idleness. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  275 

Come,  Clytie,  rouse  yourself  and  paint  a  great  picture. 
The  '  Faustina ' — what  has  become  of  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't,  don't !  "  she  cried,  putting  her  hands  up 
before  her  face.  "  I  can't  do  that  now — can't  think  of 
it.  Years  hence,  perhaps,  when  I  am  a  middle-aged 
woman,  if  I  find  it  good  enough  to  live  till  then,  I  may 
try — but  not  now." 

Kent  laid  down  his  pipe  and  drew  his  chair  near  to 
her.  He  was  pained  and  troubled.  He  saw  that  her 
nerves  were  a  little  unstrung  ;  but  the  Clytie  he  knew 
was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  give  way  to  attacks 
of  this  kind.  And  then  a  dreary  conjecture  dawned 
upon  him,  and  his  heart  sank. 

"  My  poor  Clytie  !  "  he  said  in  his  kind  way.  "  You 
seem  unhappy.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help  you." 

"  Ah  !  it's  too  late  now,"  she  said  impulsively,  scarcely 
heeding  the  purport  of  her  words.  "  You  might  have 
done  it  eighteen  months  ago — if  you  had  not  been 
quixotic." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  more  and  more 
troubled  and  at  fault.  "  Eighteen  months  ago  ?  How 
could  I  have  helped  you  ?  I  loved  you  and  hid  it  from 
you.  I  could  only  have  caused  you  pain.  I  love  you 
now.  I  don't  hide  it.  Why  should  I  ?  I  am  ready  to 
help  you  if  I  can.  I  am  stronger,  wiser  now  than  I  was 
then.  How  could  I  have  helped  you  then  ?  " 

The  simplicity  of  his  short,  reiterative  sentences  and 
the  sincerity  of  his  tone  went  to  her  heart. 

"  You  could  have  helped  me  then  by  not  hiding  it." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "  How  could  the 
knowledge  that  I  loved  you  have  helped  you,  unless  you 
cared  for  me  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  might  have  cared  for  you,"  she  said 
wearily. 

"  Oh,  God,  Clytie  !  don't  say  that.  It  is  cruel  !  "  he 
cried,  starting  to  his  feet  in  great  agitation.  "  I  know  I 
acted  like  a  fool,  but  it  was  with  true  motives.  Don't 
twit  me  with  them.  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

Only  then  did  Clytie  clearly  realise  what  she  had  been 
saying.  The  fit  of  supreme  dejection  passed  off  as  sud- 
denly as  it  had  come,  and  she  felt  keenly  the  justice  of 
his  words. 


276  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"Oh,  Kent,  Kent,  forgive  me  !  "  she  cried,  with  start- 
ing tears.  "  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying.  You  are 
so  noble  and  true-hearted  that  you  must  forgive  me. 
Sometimes  when  a  woman  is  wretched  she  has  not  con- 
trol over  herself,  and  I  am  sometimes  very,  very  wretched, 
Kent.  I  was  thinking  of  myself  more  than  of  you  when 
I  said  the  thing  that  pained  you.  Tell  me  that  you 
forgive  me." 

The  appeal  was  too  human,  too  unreserved,  to  be  re- 
jected by  Kent's  tender  nature.  He  sat  down  again 
by  her  and  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  gently. 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  like  this  before,"  he  said.  "  I 
wish  I  could  comfort  you." 

He  knew  that  it  was  no  passing  irritation  or  weariness 
that  forced  the  confession  from  Clytie's  proud  nature. 
It  was  something  deep  and  final — something  impossible 
in  her  married  life.  Her  wretchedness  made  him  forget 
his  own  longing  in  the  desire  to  be  of  use  to  her  and 
lighten  her  lot.  He  let  go  her  hand,  which  she  allowed 
to  lie  on  her  lap  as  it  fell,  with  the  palms  lightly  upwards. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  have  told  you  this  to-day,"  she 
said,  not  meeting  his  eyes.  "  I  have  never  breathed  it  or 
hinted  it  to  a  living  being,  and  it  came  upon  me  un- 
awares. Don't  despise  me,  Kent." 

"  Clyde  ! " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  know  what  any  outsider  would  say.  I 
was  posing  as  the  femme  incomprisc.  I  was  casting 
away  my  womanly  pride.  Of  all  persons  in  the  world 
you  ought  not  to  have  been  my  confidant.  Judged  by 
conventional  canons  I  am  to  be  despised,  for  what  can 
the  world  say  of  a  woman  who  tells  a  man  that  still  loves 
her  that  she  regrets  she  did  not  marry  him?  Oh,  don't 
interrupt  me.  I  may  as  well  speak  out  my  true  self 
once  and  for  all  to  you.  You  yourself  once  remarked 
that  if  we  were  superior  to  conventionalities  of  habit,  we 
ought  to  extend  our  unconventionalities  to  sentiment. 
You  are  loyal  and  staunch.  You  can  help  me  by 
being  my  friend,  for  I  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to.  My 
life  is  a  dreary  mistake.  My  art  does  not  satisfy  me,  be- 
cause I  have  no  hopes.  One  must  have  enthusiasms  to 
be  an  artist,  and  all  mine  are  dead.  Now  you  know." 

There  was  a  certain  fierce  pleasure  in  this  self-abase- 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  277 

ment.  It  was  like  the  vengeance  of  her  higher  nature 
upon  her  lower,  the  whip  of  scorn  applied  by  the  spirit 
to  the  flesh. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  her  with  inexpressi- 
ble sadness  in  his  eyes.  She  added  a  few  more  words. 

"  If  you  despise  me  for  telling  you,  let  me  know  at 
once.  It  would  be  better." 

"  God  forbid  !  "  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  shall  never 
apply  to  you  the  conventional  canons  of  misjudgment. 
I  take  what  you  have  said  to  me  as  a  sacred  trust,  and 
thank  you  from  my  heart  for  thinking  well  enough  of  me 
to  give  me  your  confidence.  You  must  never  ask  me 
such  a  question  again,  Clytie,  for  it  would  wound  me." 

"  I  believe  you,  Kent,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes  to  his 
in  her  frank  manner.  "And  I  was  wrong  to  say  you 
might  have  helped  me,  for  you  can  now.  And  you 
will?" 

"  With  my  last  breath,"  said  Kent  simply.  "  It  has 
been  the  torturing  regret  of  the  last  eighteen  months 
that,  much  as  I  wished,  I  could  never  do  a  hand's  turn 
for  you." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  for  you  in  repayment,  my  poor 
Kent?" 

"  Be  your  own  bright,  eager  self  again.  Throw  your- 
self into  your  painting,  and  the  result  I  will  take  as  my 
rewardo  It  will  be  my  influence  gleaming  through  your 
genius,  and  it  will  be  sweet  to  me.  Oh,  Clytie  !  you  are 
wrong.  A  life  is  seldom  so  wrecked  that  it  cannot  be 
reconstructed,  for  that  implies  the  utter  loss  of  faith.  A 
grain  of  faith  in  anything  can  move  mountains ;  if  one 
hasn't  it,  then  it  is  time  to  put  an  end  to  life  altogether, 
it  becomes  one's  duty  not  to  live." 

"  I  came  within  an  ace  of  that  at  the  beginning  of 
the  year,"  said  Clytie,  with  a  sad  retrospective  smile. 
"  Some  time  I  may  tell  you  why.  I  thought  of  dying,  but 
then  it  seemed  cowardly.  Perhaps  it  was  I  had  more 
curiosity  to  go  on  seeing  how  the  world  went  on  than  I 
was  aware  of.  And  now,  Kent,  you  have  put  things  in  a 
new  light  before  me,  and  how  can  I  thank  you  for  all 
your  goodness?" 

"  I  have  told  you,"  he  replied,  with  a  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  next  morning,  after  writing  her  letters  and  attend- 
ing to  her  household  duties,  Clytie  went  into  her  studio 
with  the  praiseworthy  intention  of  stimulating  the  artistic 
impulse  that  had  been  flagging  for  so  long.  Kent  was 
right,  she  thought.  Her  life  could  be  reconstructed. 
She  would  begin  her  laborious  art  life  again,  resume  it 
seriously  as  a  profession,  put  her  pictures  into  the  market 
once  more.  Amid  the  many  confusing  thoughts  and 
emotions  resulting  from  her  conversation  with  Kent,  one 
idea  had  sprung  in  connection  with  Jack.  She  could 
not  adopt  the  boy.  That  was  a  wild  feminine  craving, 
somewhat  selfish,  springing  out  of  a  bitter  hour  when 
fairer  hopes  were  crushed.  It  cost  her  a  sigh  to 
resign  ;  but  she  trusted  to  Kent's  judgment,  and  her 
mind  was  so  far  at  rest.  Yet  if  it  could  lie  in  her  power 
to  help  Jack  materially  in  after  years,  when  a  little 
capital  would  be  worth  all  the  world  to  him,  she  felt  that 
she  would  have  wrought  some  good  for  one  human 
creature  at  least  in  her  somewhat  self-centred  life. 
And  then  Kent's  advice  as  to  her  art  mingled  and  com- 
bined with  these  thoughts,  and  the  outcome  was  the 
sudden  idea  that  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  her  pictures 
would,  in  course  of  time,  form  a  very  considerable  fund. 
She  clapped  her  hands  with  delight  when  this  occurred 
to  her.  A  mountain  of  weariness  seemed  removed.  In 
the  spontaneity  of  new  workings  she  scribbled  a  hasty 
line  to  Kent  and  had  it  posted  with  the  address  scarcely 
dry. 

"  I  am  going  to  paint  seriously,  and  sell  my  pictures, 
and  devote  the  proceeds  to  a  fund  for  Jack.  Shall  I  ?" 

She  was  in  bright  spirits  this  morning,  having  dis- 
covered an  object  in  life.  The  future  has  generally 
much  more  to  do  with  our  present  moods  than  the  past. 
Yet,  notwithstanding  this  broad  truth,  the  immediate 

278 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  279 

past  had  a  certain  influence  on  Clytie's  humour.  Whilst 
she  was  driving  home  the  afternoon  before,  the  gravity 
of  the  fact  of  her  confession  to  Kent  had  somewhat 
weighed  upon  her.  She  had  spent  the  lonely  evening 
grappling  with  a  truth  that  had  been  taking  half- 
reluctant  shape  in  her  consciousness  for  the  last  two 
months,  and  now  rose  clear  and  sharply  defined.  She 
had  even  written  to  Kent  the  following  portion  of  a 
letter  which  she  straightway  tore  up  into  the  finest  of 
pieces.  In  fact  her  intention  of  sending  it  to  him  was 
from  the  first  of  the  very  remotest.  "  My  dear  Kent," 
ran  this  singularly  feminine  effusion.  "  My  words 
to-day  were  true.  If  you  had  told  me  you  loved  me 
eighteen  months  ago,  I  should  have  realised  myself  and 
what  it  was  that  I  felt  towards  you.  The  knowledge  of 
her  own  heart  does  not  come  to  a  woman  with  the  easy 
grace  that  your  sentimentalists  make  out.  It  is  some- 
what of  a  fierce  process,  Kent.  There  is  no  royal  road 
to  it.  Well,  I  know  my  own  heart  now,  and  I  have 
bought  the  knowledge  with  agonies  of  suffering.  Oh, 
Kent,  my  true,  loyal  Kent  !  I  am  tired,  tired  of  hiding 
facts  from  myself,  of  acting  in  a  wilful  dream,  in  defiance 
of  the  promptings  of  my  reason.  I  am  a  woman,  and  I 
ought  not  to  confess  things  to  myself,  let  alone  to  you. 
So  people  say — and  people  are  so  wise,  aren't  they  ?  I 
love  you,  Kent.  There,  I  write  it  down  in  black  and 
white.  It  looks  odd,  grotesque,  horrible,  and  yet  won- 
derfully comforting.  I  love  you,  Kent.  Why  should  I 
deceive  myself  any  longer?  God  knows  whether  it  is 
for  my  happiness  in  the  future  or  my  misery  ;  but  now 
that  the  beauty  of  it  is  upon  me  it  makes  me  wonder- 
fully happy.  Yes,  wonderfully,  wonderfully,  wonder- 
fully happy." 

And  then  she  threw  down  her  pen  and  shredded  the 
paper  with  frenzied  zeal.  But  her  heart  was  lighter. 
The  world  seemed  a  clearer,  pleasanter  place.  Her 
cheeks  burned  like  fire  at  the  thought  of  Kent  ever 
knowing  of  this  feeling.  She  arranged  in  her  mind  the 
tenderest  and  most  elusive  of  relations  between  Kent 
and  herself.  He,  a  declared  lover,  should  give  her  all 
the  comfort  and  kind  counsel  of  a  friend  ;  she,  his 
declared  friend,  would  find  delicate,  subtle  ways  of  colour- 


280  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

ing  and  softening  his  life  with  her  love.  A  new  paradise 
of  exquisite  emotion  opened  its  evanescent  portals.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  came  the  romance  of  delicate 
sentiment,  tinged  with  an  innocent  pink  like  the  buds  in 
spring.  It  is  true  these  same  buds,  to  continue  the 
analogy,  burst  into  gorgeous,  riotous  bloom  under  the 
summer  sun  ;  but  while  the  tenderer  air  of  spring  keeps 
them  closed  they  have  a  grace  peculiarly  their  own. 

Clytie  moved  about  the  studio  singing,  a  sign  with  her 
of  great  content.  The  window  was  open  and  the  morn- 
ing sun  streamed  in,  filling  the  large  and  somewhat 
heavily  tapestried  room  with  gay  light.  It  glorified 
Clytie  as  she  passed  across  the  patch  of  sunlight,  falling 
upon  her  hair  in  a  thousand  scintillations  and  revealing 
the  deep  sea-blue  of  her  eyes.  She  wore  a  soft  cream 
morning  gown,  a  golden  tasselled  girdle  round  her  waist, 
an  edging  of  old  lace  round  the  somewhat  open  neck. 
The  wide,  drooping  sleeves  she  had  caught  up  a  little  for 
convenience  in  working,  and  her  arms  were  bare  to  the 
elbow.  The  skirt  clung  around  her  as  she  walked 
quickly  about  the  room,  with  her  old  elastic  tread,  mak- 
ing a  soft  frou-frou  that  pleased  her,  she  did  not  know 
why.  She  was  happy  again,  filled  with  a  double  sense  of 
the  meaning  of  life.  At  last  she  sat  down  before  a  small 
easel,  on  which  was  put  the  board  with  its  fair  sheet  of 
Whatman  paper  ready  for  the  first  sketch.  In  her  rapid, 
eager  way  she  commenced  to  indicate  the  motive  of  the 
picture  that  had  flashed  like  an  inspiration  upon  her.  In 
the  middle  distance  on  the  left  a  pair  of  lovers,  the 
woman  looking  with  upturned  face  at  the  man,  whose 
arm  was  round  her  waist.  In  the  foreground,  peeping  at 
them  from  behind  a  clump  of  bushes,  a  girl  of  about 
seventeen,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand.  The  contrast 
between  the  two  female  faces  was  the  motive — the  fulfil- 
ment of  knowledge  on  the  one,  the  dawning  revelation 
on  the  other.  The  title  had  come  with  the  conception  : 
"  Maiden  and  Woman."  Clytie  worked  on  steadily  with 
her  Jbauchc,  keen,  sure  of  herself,  tingling  once  again 
with  the  excitement  of  inspiration.  She  knew  she  could 
put  that  in  their  faces  which  would  raise  the  picture 
above  the  narrative  prettiness  of  Sant  and  his  school. 
The  accessories  were  to  be  severe  to  austerity.  No 


AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  281 

elaborate  detail  in  tree  painting,  no  subtle  effects  of  light 
and  shade.  The  principle  of  abstraction  to  be  as  un- 
compromisingly carried  out  as  in  one  of  Seymour  Haden's 
etchings.  The  whole  artistic  force  of  the  picture  was  to 
be  concentrated  in  the  awakened  and  awakening  souls. 

She  was  absorbed  in  her  work  when,  after  a  tap  at  the 
door,  Jack  came  in.  Clytie  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"  You  here  again,  Jack  !  That  is  good  of  you.  But 
I  can't  say  a  word  to  you — positively.  I  am  so  busy. 
Sit  down  somewhere  until  I  have  finished." 

The  boy,  used  to  these  fits  of  absorption  in  his  two 
artist  patronesses,  sat  down  for  a  little  and  let  his  eyes 
wander  round  the  studio,  looking  at  the  pictures  and 
nicknacks.  Then  he  got  up  to  make  a  closer  exami- 
nation of  vases  and  photographs,  and  walked  about  on 
tiptoe,  trying  to  still  the  noise  of  his  iron-shod  boots 
against  the  hard,  polished  floor.  At  last  he  discovered 
on  the  bookshelves  an  illustrated  History  of  England, 
with  which  he  retired  to  his  favourite  place  on  the 
hearthrug.  And  so  they  remained  for  half  an  hour 
without  saying  a  word — Clytie  bending  over  her  study, 
Jack  curled  up  with  his  picture-book.  It  was  quite  still. 
A  stray  bumble-bee  looked  in  now  and  then  at  the  win- 
dow, buzzing  querulously,  as  if  he  had  lost  his  way  in 
London,  and  then  darted  off  again.  From  the  servants' 
hall  came  the  just  perceptible  voice  of  one  of  the  maids 
singing  a  hymn-tune,  and  from  far,  far  away  came  the 
tinkling  treble  of  a  piano-organ.  And  these  few  sounds, 
so  faint  yet  so  clear,  accentuated  the  summer  stillness. 

When  Clytie  had  put  the  last  few  touches  on  the 
portion  of  her  work  that  demanded  all  her  concentra- 
tion, she  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Jack  ?  "  she  said,  leaning 
back  with  her  head  critically  aslant.  "  Don't  you  think 
that  is  going  to  make  a  famous  picture?" 

Jack  jumped  up  promptly,  leaving  his  book  open  on 
the  hearthrug,  and  came  up  to  her  side.  He  was  not 
a  connoisseur,  in  spite  of  his  associations  with  art,  so 
he  said  nothing,  but  grinned  appreciatively,  rubbing 
the  calf  of  one  leg  with  the  instep  of  the  other. 

"  Well,"  asked  Clytie,  "  why  don't  you  admire  ?  " 

"  You  aint  given  them  no  faces,"  said  Jack. 


282  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Ah  !  This  is  to  be  one  face,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a 
kind  of  remarque  at  the  foot  of  the  sheet.  "  Or  some- 
thing like  it.  Now  just  use  your  imagination,  Jack. 
This  face  is  to  go  there — the  woman  whose  whole  nature 
has  been  awakened,  and  is  shining  out  of  her  eyes,  and 
quivering  on  her  lips,  and  is  vibrating  all  through  her 
frame — all  of  which  is  Greek  and  Chaldee  to  you,  my 
good  Jack  ;  but  I  may  as  well  explain.  And  now  I  have 
got  to  fix  a  face  for  this  one.  What  kind  of  face  do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  give  her  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  murmured  Jack.  And  then  after  a  slight 
pause  :  "  And  what's  the  man  going  to  be  like  ?  " 

"Ah  !  "  said  Clyde,  with  a  mock  sigh.  "What  a  little 
Philistine  you  are  !  The  man  can  be  any  kind  of  creature 
on  two  legs.  What  does  it  matter  about  the  man  ?  He 
is  a  nuisance.  I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  him  awfully 
ugly  with  a  face  like  a  rhinoceros.  See,  like  this." 

She  made  a  few  rapid  strokes  with  her  charcoal  in  the 
oval  left  for  the  man's  face,  and  the  result  was  a  pictur- 
esque monster  with  a  long  nose,  Mephistophelian  eye- 
brows, and  a  moustache  curling  up  to  his  ears.  Then 
they  both  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Let  me  draw  some  funny  men  for  you,"  she  said  in 
the  light-hearted  buoyancy  of  her  mood.  "  Run  and  get 
me  that  sheet  of  paper  over  there." 

She  pinned  the  sheet  that  Jack  brought  her  on  to  the 
board  and  began  to  draw  caricatures. 

"  You  shall  choose  one  for  me  to  put  in  the  picture, 
Jack." 

It  was  a  long,  long  time  since  she  had  indulged  this 
freakish  side  of  her  genius.  It  ran  riot  now  in  grotesque 
exuberance.  Here  a  head  with  wide,  leering  mouth  and 
pointed  ears,  like  the  devil  that  looks  over  Lincoln  ; 
there  a  snouted  monster  with  cat's  whiskers,  an  eyeglass, 
and  a  silk  hat  ;  a  lean,  cadaverous,  equine  face  with  a 
terrible  squint ;  a  masher,  indicated  by  three  or  four 
little  dots  and  lines.  Jack  looked  on  in  rapture.  She 
had  never  drawn  pictures  for  him  before.  He  broke  out 
now  and  then  into  breathless  exclamations. 

"  Lord,  he's  an  ugly  one !  Give  him  a  long  nose — 
longer  than  that ;  and,  my  eye  !  that's  a  wart  upon  it. 
One  of  the  teachers  at  school  has  a  wart  on  his  nose. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  283 

That's  just  like  him  !  And  where's  this  one's  'ed  ? — he's 
all  body  and  legs  !  " 

And  then  he  jumped  and  clapped  his  hands  when  the 
head  was  seen  to  emerge  from  between  the  knees  after 
the  fashion  of  the  boneless  wonders. 

When  she  had  filled  up  the  last  space  on  the  sheet 
she  tossed  the  charcoal  into  the  tray,  and  rose  from  her 
seat. 

"  There,  Jack  !  There's  nothing  like  going  absolutely 
mad  on  occasions.  Now  if  you'd  like  to  keep  these  pic- 
tures and  show  them  to  the  boys  at  school,  you  can." 

She  rolled  up  the  stiff  piece  of  drawing  paper,  slipped 
an  elastic  band  round  it  in  her  hasty  way,  and  gave 
it  to  Jack,  who  could  only  look  his  delighted  thanks. 

"  Now  I  must  go  and  wash  my  hands  and  get  decent 
for  lunch.  Go  downstairs  and  tell  Mrs.  Pawkins  to  give 
you  something  to  eat.  Stay — you  had  better  leave  that 
roll  up  here  ;  come  in  for  it  before  you  go." 

She  took  it  from  him,  and  laid  it  on  a  little  table  near 
the  door.  She  did  not  desire  that  the  inquisitive  eyes  in 
the  servants'  hall  should  witness  the  mistress's  frivolity. 
Jack  understood  her  more  or  less,  but  Mrs.  Pawkins  and 
Mary  and  John  would  have  questioned  her  sanity. 

Jack  lingered  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  and  then 
drew  shyly  from  his  handkerchief  pocket  a  dingy,  whitey- 
brown  packet. 

"  I  came  to  show  you  this,"  he  said,  putting  it  into  her 
hand.  "  I  prigged  it  from  mother's  drawer  this  morning. 
You'll  give  it  me  back,  won't  you  ? " 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  not  to,"  said  Clytie  severely.  "  If 
your  mother  knew,  she  would  be  very  angry,  and  you 
would  catch  it.  Still,  as  you  have  been  a  good  boy,  I'll 
look  at  it  and  give  it  you  back.  Run  away,  now." 

Jack  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  Clytie,  after  a  few  turns 
about  the  room,  putting  things  more  or  less  straight, 
unfolded  the  dirty  wrapper  of  Jack's  packet,  with  an 
amused  curiosity  as  to  the  features  of  Jack's  father. 

But  in  another  second  all  her  curiosity,  amusement, 
idle  interest,  were  fled,  and  her  whole  emotive  force  con- 
centrated into  a  short,  irrepressible  gasp  of  astonishment. 
It  was  a  photograph  of  Thornton,  her  husband.  There 
was  no  mistaking  it.  She  had  the  fellow  to  it  in  her 


284  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

album.  One  day  long  ago  she  had  seen  it  among  his 
odds  and  ends,  and  had  begged  for  it,  loving  it  for  all 
that  it  was  so  many  years  old,  taken  when  he  was  still  in 
the  army.  He  looked  so  stalwart,  soldierly,  magnificent 
in  his  uniform.  It  was  perhaps  the  likeness  of  him  that 
she  had  cherished  most — only  too  familiar.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  could  hardly  understand — the  shock  was  so 
sudden  and  unexpected.  Then  with  the  quick  reaction 
she  realised  what  it  meant.  Thornton  was  Jack's  father, 
Mrs.  Burrnester  was  his  mother.  With  a  shudder  of  dis- 
gust she  threw  the  photograph  on  the  table. 

The  riddle  of  Jack's  parentage  was  solved  in  a  way 
she  had  not  looked  for  ;  the  mystery  that  had  lain  hidden 
in  strange,  unknown  depths  of  passion  was  now  clear  to  her 
in  all  its  unlovely  nakedness.  Her  soul  sickened  at  the 
truth.  She  had  not  come  to  her  husband  with  the  help- 
less ignorance  of  a  young  girl.  The  knowledge  of  good 
"ind  evil,  to  employ  the  somewhat  meaningless  euphemism, 
uad  come  to  her  through  her  intelligence  by  means  of 
books,  through  her  contact  with  real  life.  She  had  grasped 
the  fact  of  the  existence  of  the  Loulou  Mendes  type  with 
whom  love  is  a  trade.  That  a  man  should  have  had  a 
liaison  with  such  a  woman  she  could  have  understood. 
In  fact  she  never  at  any  one  moment  had  fancied  that 
Thornton  had  brought  to  her  the  pure  ardour  of  a  virgin 
soul.  To  have  been  revolted  at  the  discovery  of  a  mere 
antenuptial  infidelity  on  the  part  of  her  husband  would 
have  been  to  her  impossible.  It  was  not  noble,  it  is 
true  ;  but  it  was  intelligible.  There  was  certainly  for  a 
lower  nature  a  charm,  witchery,  fascination,  in  the  fleshly 
beauty  of  the  courtesan.  She  had  heard  of  many  men 
falling  victims  to  it,  and  sinking  very  little  into  degrada- 
tion. If  Jack's  mother  had  been  such  a  woman,  she 
would  have  felt  little  more  than  the  shock  of  coincidence, 
a  sense  of  strangeness  in  her  relations  with  the  boy. 
But  Jack's  mother  was  not  of  this  type.  She  never  had 
charm,  witchery,  or  fascination.  She  had  never  even 
passable  good  looks.  A  poor,  stolid,  dull,  animal  drudge. 

The  truth  had  come  upon  Clytie  ;  the  truth  that  had 
touched  her  now  and  then  with  its  bat  wings,  making  her 
shiver ;  the  horrible,  soul-nauseating  truth  of  the  eternal 
beast  in  man.  She  knew  Thornton  now  as  he  was,  and 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  285 

her  indifference  passed  into  loathing.  In  Thornton's 
feelings  what  difference  had  there  been  between  this 
boy's  mother  and  herself  ? 

She  walked  swiftly  up  and  down  the  studio,  with 
clenched  white  hands,  her  shoulders  rising  now  and  then 
in  an  involuntary  heave  of  disgust.  The  glory  had  gone 
out  of  the  day.  A  foul  shadow  overspread  it. 

Suddenly  Thornton  himself  appeared  with  eager  face, 
a  telegram  in  his  hand.  He  had  just  come  in  from  rid- 
ing in  the  Park,  and  according  to  the  modern  fashion 
out  of  the  season,  was  dressed  in  tweed  suit  and  gaiters. 
He  carried  a  silver-headed  riding  whip  jauntily  under  his 
arm.  He  waved  the  telegram  exultingly. 

"  They  have  asked  me  to  put  up  for  Witherby  !  "  he 
said.  "  I'll  have  some  lunch  on  the  strength  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose there's  some  going." 

"  I  believe  lunch  is  at  the  usual  hour,"  said  Clytie,  not 
looking  at  him. 

He  lingered  a  little,  flicking  his  legs  with  his  whip. 

"  You  might  as  well  congratulate  me,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  politeness,"  he  said  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  congratulate  you,"  she  replied. 

Her  voice  sounded  strange  in  her  own  ears.  She  felt 
an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  burst  forth  into  a  torrent 
of  speech,  to  say  out  finally  all  the  bitterness  and  loath- 
ing that  were  in  her  heart.  She  restrained  herself,  but 
the  effort  gave  a  queer  guttural  resonance  to  her  words. 
She  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  What  the  devil's  the  matter  ? "  he  asked  impatiently. 
"  I  came  in,  'pon  my  soul,  thinking  you'd  be  pleased. 
It's  a  safe  seat.  I'm  dead  certain  to  knock  the  con- 
founded Radical  into  a  cocked  hat.  Just  the  moment 
when  I've  got  what  I've  been  sweating  for  the  last  eigh- 
teen months,  confound  it  all,  I  did  think  you'd  be  civil 
for  once  in  a  way.  But  it's  just  like  you  ;  I  might  have 
expected  it.  Well,  perhaps  it's  the  truth  to  say  you  don't 
care  a  damn  one  way  or  the  other." 

He  walked  to  and  fro  for  a  little,  fuming.  Then  his 
eyes  falling  on  the  photograph  that  lay  on  the  table,  he 
picked  it  up,  as  an  angry  man  will  do,  looked  at  it 
absently  for  a  moment,  and  pitched  it  sharply  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  Clytie,  startled  by  the  slight  click  of 


286  AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

the  cardboard  striking  against  the  wall,  turned  half 
round  and  met  his  eyes  fixed  loweringly  upon  her.  Each 
held  the  other  spellbound  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  the 
door  opened  and  Jack  came  into  the  studio,  checking 
his  motion  forward  as  he  saw  Thornton. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  this  ?  "  cried  the  latter. 

With  a  swift,  instinctive  glance  Clytie  compared  the 
two  faces.  They  were  astonishingly  alike.  The  same 
finely  moulded  features,  dark  lucent  eyes,  brown  crisp 
hair,  white  evenly  set  teeth  ;  the  same  lines  of  cruelty  at 
the  corners  of  the  lips.  Strange  that,  much  as  she  had 
studied  Jack's  physiognomy,  the  likeness  had  never  sug- 
gested itself.  At  Thornton's  petulant  question  the  boy 
looked  at  him  half  frightened,  and  then  at  Clytie,  and 
was  about  to  shrink  back.  But  she  called  him  in. 

"  Don't  go  away  without  your  drawing,  Jack.  This," 
she  said  coldly  to  Thornton,  "  is  aprotegt  of  mine.  He 
was  once  my  model — for  my  picture  '  Jack.'  Here,  Jack, 
take  your  drawing.  Run  home.  Thank  you  for  coming 
to  see  me." 

"  And — and  the  photograph.  You  said  you'd  give  it 
me  back." 

Clytie  went  to  the  table  where  she  had  thrown  it.  Not 
seeing  it,  she  remembered  the  sound  that  had  startled 
her,  and  turning  round,  perceived  the  photograph  lying 
face  upwards  on  the  floor.  She  gave  a  little  start  of 
dismay.  The  situation  threatened  to  become  dramatic, 
and  she  was  unprepared.  In  her  hurry  to  dismiss  the 
boy  she  had  forgotten  the  photograph.  Now  he  had 
called  attention  to  it,  and  she  felt  bound  to  restore  it  to 
him  to  save  the  poor  little  urchin's  honour  and  most 
probably  his  back.  And  Thornton  was  leaning  against 
the  mantelpiece,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  frown- 
ingly  surveying  the  scene.  With  outward  calm,  but  with 
a  beating  heart,  she  picked  up  the  photograph,  wrapped 
it  in  the  dirty  covering,  and  put  it  into  Jack's  hand. 
Thornton,  who  had  watched  her  movements  with  gather- 
ing surprise,  strode  forward  with  an  oath. 

"  What  the  devil " 

But  Clytie  quickly  interposed  herself  between  him  and 
the  boy. 

"  Run  away  !  "  she  said  in  a  hasty  whisper,  and  Jack, 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  287 

accustomed  from  his  childhood  to  sudden  dartings,  dis- 
appeared like  a  flash.  Clytie  put  her  back  against  the 
door  and  looked  at  her  husband  with  strange  eyes.  It 
had  been  done  with  the  speed  of  a  conjuring  trick. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  asked 
Thornton  ;  "  and  what  are  you  giving  away  my  photo- 
graphs for  ?  Upon  my  soul,  I  think  you  are  taking  leave 
of  your  senses.  You'll  have  to  drop  this  sort  of  thing. 
I'm  damned  if  I  am  going  to  have  my  photographs  given 
away  to  all  the  street  urchins  in  London.  Play  the  fool 
yourself  if  you  like,  but  I'll  trouble  you  to  keep  me  and 
my  things  out  of  it.  Have  you  been  giving  me  away 
any  more  ? " 

"  Oh,  God  !  Thornton,  you  have  given  yourself  away  !  " 
she  cried,  echoing  his  slang  phrase  half  unconsciously  in 
her  bitterness.  "  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  like.  The  photo- 
graph belongs  to  the  boy's  mother.  He  is  your  child." 

"  What  !  "  cried  Thornton  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  show- 
ing his  teeth  savagely. 

"  Yes,  your  child,"  she  went  on,  striving  to  be  calm. 
"  His  mother's  name  is  Burmester.  You  gave  her  the  pic- 
ture yourself  years  ago.  I  had  just  made  the  discovery 
when  you  came  in.  Ah — h!  "  she  cried,  putting  her 
hands  suddenly  before  her  face,  "  it  is  horrible,  horrible!" 

"  Ha  ! "  retorted  Thornton  fiercely.  "  You  are  in  one 
of  your  damned  high-horse  moods.  Well,  I  did  give  one 
of  my  father's  kitchen-maids  a  photograph,  and  she  did 
have  a  child,  and  I  paid  her  for  her  trouble,  and,  damme  ! 
what  that's  got  to  do  with  you  now  is  more  than  I  can 
see.  Besides,  you  never  were  such  a  fool  as  to  imagine 
you  were  marrying  an  infernal  saint." 

"  Oh,  stop  !  stop  !  "  she  cried.  "  Don't  say  anything 
more.  You  will  brutalise  me  as  well  as  yourself.  I 
never  thought  you  a  saint — even  when  I  cared  for  you. 
I  know  what  you  are,  and,  oh,  God  !  this  is  the  end  of 
it.  If  you  had  betrayed  a  sweet,  innocent  girl,  you 
would  have  been  a  villain,  but  not  necessarily  a  brute — 
someone  charming,  pretty,  attractive — I  could  have  un- 
derstood it ;  but  a  poor  stupid  drudge — a  kitchen-maid — 
little  better  than  an  animal " 

Thornton  rushed  forward  and  caught  her  by  her 
shoulder. 


288  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  By  the  Lord  God  !  if  you  don't  hold  your  tongue, 
I'll  strike  you  !  " 

She  saw  that  she  had  aroused  the  devil  in  him.  She 
had  meant  to  be  calm,  to  tell  him  plainly  the  facts  of  the 
case  and  to  say  that  it  would  be  better  that  they  should 
live  apart.  But  an  irrepressible  shudder  had  come  over 
her,  and  then  the  brutal  cynicism  of  his  confession  had 
caused  her  the  loss  of  her  self-control.  As  she  saw  the 
blazing  eyes  and  white  glittering  teeth  in  front  of  her 
and  felt  the  grip  on  her  shoulder,  she  regretted  that  she 
had  been,  in  a  way,  to  blame  ;  but  she  was  no  coward, 
and  the  threat  awakened  the  fierce  old  Puritan  courage  in 
her  nature.  She  did  not  flinch,  but  looked  him  directly 
in  the  face. 

"  Your  striking  me  would  only  add  to  your  other 
brutalities." 

"  Damn  you  !  "  he  cried  in  blind  fury ;  and  swinging 
her  round,  he  struck  her  with  the  riding  whip  with  all 
his  huge  strength,  cutting  the  back  of  the  thin  morning 
gown,  that  flew  open  at  the  gap,  showing  her  bare 
shoulders.  Then  he  hurled  her  from  him  and  rushed 
out  of  the  room. 

With  an  almost  superhuman  effort  of  will  Clytie  sprang 
to  her  feet,  stood  for  a  moment  dazed,  stunned,  on  fire 
with  agony,  then  staggered  forward  and  threw  herself 
upon  the  bearskin  rug,  with  the  illustrated  History  of 
England,  open  as  Jack  had  left  it,  beneath  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

SUDDENLY  Clytie  rose  to  her  feet  and  left  the  studio. 
As  she  moved  a  strange  weight  seemed  to  lie  upon  her 
limbs.  It  was  a  physical  effort  to  drag  herself  up  the 
stairs  to  her  bedroom.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  burned 
through,  a  fiery  sword  to  have  been  thrust  through  her 
temples.  It  was  the  supreme  moment  of  the  horror  and 
abasement  of  her  married  life.  One  intense  thought 
possessed  her  ;  to  fly  from  the  house,  to  escape  from  the 
area  of  Thornton's  influence,  to  bury  herself  somewhere 
far  away.  Mechanically  she  changed  her  things,  choos- 
ing one  of  the  simple  morning  dresses  she  had  retained 
since  the  days  before  her  marriage,  and  bathed  her 
feverish  face  and  hands.  The  cold  water  refreshed  her, 
restored  adjustment  to  her  quivering  nerves,  and  she  was 
able  to  think,  form  a  coherent  plan. 

She  would  go  forthwith  to  her  old  rooms  in  the  King's 
Road,  which  she  knew  to  be  vacant.  There  she  would 
live  again  as  Clytie  Davenant,  and  shut  out  of  her 
memory  the  nightmare  of  the  past  months.  The  plan 
conceived,  she  hurried  to  put  it  into  execution.  She 
would  have  liked  to  open  the  street  door  there  and  then, 
to  cross  its  threshold  for  the  last  time.  But  the  practi- 
cal side  of  life  asserts  itself  in  the  midst  of  the  intensest 
emotions.  She  would  have  to  pack  her  boxes,  select 
what  things  she  would  take  with  her.  The  aid,  too,  of 
the  servants  would  be  necessary.  After  a  swift  look  at 
the  glass  she  composed  her  features,  summoned  her 
maid,  gave  her  orders  in  a  calm,  equable  voice,  as  if  she 
were  going  on  an  ordinary  visit  in  the  country. 

While  the  servants  packed  the  articles  she  designated, 
she  went  down  to  the  studio  in  order  to  collect  a  few 
of  the  portable  objects  that  were  dear  to  her  :  Rupert 
Kent's  etching,  the  Jacquemart  that  Kent  had  given  her, 
a  book  or  two,  a  favourite  box  of  oil-tubes.  All  the  rest 

989 


290  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

she  would  leave  behind,  together  with  everything  that 
Thornton  had  ever  given  her.  The  maid,  an  excellently 
trained  servant,  packed  quickly,  but  to  Clytie  she  seemed 
unutterably  slow.  It  was  an  effort  of  control  to  refrain 
from  urging  the  girl  on,  from  snatching  the  articles  from 
her  hands  and  stowing  them  away  anyhow,  haphazard. 
Every  moment  that  she  lingered  seemed  an  eternity  of 
degradation.  In  after  days  she  wondered  that  she  had 
never  reflected  how  far  Thornton's  possible  presence  in 
the  house  might  have  affected  the;  ease  of  her  escape. 
As  it  happened,  he  had  flung  out  of  doors  as  soon  as  he 
had  left  her  stricken  upon  the  floor  ;  but  she,  in  the 
fixity  of  her  idea,  never  concerned  herself  as  to  his 
whereabouts. 

At  last,  when  the  boxes  were  packed  and  locked,  the 
maid,  dangling  the  keys  in  her  hand,  asked  Clytie  when 
she  should  order  the  brougham. 

"  I  shall  go  in  a  four-wheeled  cab  with  the  luggage," 
said  Clytie.  "  Go  and  order  one  round  at  once." 

The  maid  retired  wonderingly,  and  Clytie  was  left 
alone.  She  put  on  her  bonnet  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed  to  draw  on  her  gloves.  Then  for  the  first 
time  her  eye  fell  consciously  upon  her  wedding-ring,  and 
thereupon  came  over  her  the  sense  of  all  that  her  pres- 
ent action  implied  :  the  final  renunciation  of  the  marriage- 
tie,  the  assertion  of  her  own  individuality,  the  beginning 
of  another  life.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  her  repudiation,  the 
tie  remained,  indissoluble  except  by  death,  and  this  little 
circlet  of  gold  was  the  symbol.  With  a  twinge  of  pain 
she  wrenched  it  off,  for  it  was  tightly  fitting,  and  went 
and  threw  it  in  a  jewel  box  containing  the  jewellery  that 
Thornton  had  given  her.  At  any  rate,  she  could  spare 
herself  the  hourly  misery  of  this  visible  bond.  It  was  a 
poor  kind  of  relief  to  leave  it  there  with  the  other  tokens 
of  her  wifehood. 

Then,  as  she  waited,  her  crushed  pride  rose  a  few 
degrees.  Whatever  subsequent  steps  Thornton  might 
take,  her  departure  should  at  least  not  have  the  indignity 
of  flight.  A  scribbled  line  would  save  her  self-respect. 
When  the  servants  came  into  the  room  to  take  down  the 
boxes  to  the  cab  she  had  written  the  note. 

"  I   am  leaving  your  house.     I  go  back   to  my   old 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  291 

rooms  in  the  King's  Road,  where  I  shall  resume  the  life 
I  led  before  I  knew  you." 

Then  only  did  it  occur  to  her  to  inquire  of  the  foot- 
man whether  Mr.  Hammerdyke  was  in.  The  man,  who 
was  accustomed  to  the  separation  between  the  lives  of 
his  master  and  mistress,  replied,  without  manifesting  any 
surprise  at  the  question,  that  Mr.  Hammerdyke  had  gone 
out  just  before  lunch. 

"  Put  this  note  in  his  room  for  him,"  said  Clytie.  "  I 
shall  be  away  some  time." 

In  a  few  moments  she  had  started.  With  a  little  con- 
vulsive  moan,  wrung  involuntarily  from  her  lips  by  her 
agony  of  body  and  soul,  she  leaned  her  head  against  the 
rusty  cushions  of  the  ramshackle  vehicle  and  closed  her 
eyes.  The  day  was  still  glorious,  London  bathed  in 
sunlight,  the  streets  filled  with  life  and  motion.  For  all 
the  world  but  her  the  promise  of  the  morning  was  kept. 
As  the  cab  slackened  its  pace  on  crossing  the  Fulham 
Road  she  opened  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
vacantly,  as  if  in  a  dream,  out  of  the  window.  Then 
she  relapsed  into  her  darkness. 

"  And  I  was  so  happy  this  morning,"  she  murmured 
to  herself.  "  I  could  have  lived  the  better  life — with 
Kent's  help  ! " 

Kent !  She  started,  as  a  wave  of  blood  rushed 
to  her  cheeks.  She  was  going  to  Kent  now,  to  live 
under  the  same  roof  with  him  once  more,  to  see  him 
daily,  to  take  him  more  intimately  than  ever  into  her  life. 
Until  now  she  had  not  realised  this  coherently.  Vague 
thoughts  of  .him  had  passed  through  her  mind,  but  she 
had  been  too  dazed,  too  sickened,  too  much  possessed  by 
the  overpowering  longing  for  freedom,  escape  from  the 
house  of  bondage,  to  connect  him  definitely  with  her 
immediate  future.  And  in  the  unconscious  sequence  of 
ideas  a  little  self-reproach  came  into  her  mind,  bringing 
with  it  a  sense  of  soothing.  Why  had  she  not  thought 
of  Kent  at  first,  of  the  true,  loyal  friend  and  lover,  on 
whom  she  could  rely  for  strength  and  comfort  ?  How 
could  she  have  been  so  much  wrapped  up  in  herself  and 
her  wrongs  as  never  to  have  given  him  a  place  in  her 
plans  ?  And  then  the  tide  of  feeling  ebbed  back  again, 
leaving  her  heart  quite  cold  and  sad.  How  could  she 


29*  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

meet  him  ?  How  could  she  tell  him  ?  The  eternal 
woman  in  her  shrank  from  the  confession.  If  he  had 
been  to  her  but  a  friend,  it  had  been  easy.  But  she 
loved  him.  Had  not  her  heart  sung  within  her  that  very 
morning,  only  a  few  hours  before,  at  the  grace  and  ten- 
derness of  her  at  last  awakened  love  ?  And  she  fought, 
womanlike,  against  she  scarce  knew  what,  striving  to 
disentwine  herself  like  Laocoon  from  the  coils  that  love 
and  circumstance  had  wound,  in  subtle  intricacy  of  con- 
volution, about  her  heart.  But  for  all  her  shrinking  she 
longed  for  Kent.  If  only  he  could  understand  it  all 
without  her  telling  !  If  only  he  could  come  that  evening 
and  sit  by  her  side  and  hold  her  hand  in  strong,  mute 
sympathy  !  Well,  she  would  conquer  her  woman's  diffi- 
dence, and  tell  him  bravely.  She  felt  she  owed  him  a 
little  reparation.  The  inherent  delight  in  putting  itself 
in  the  wrong  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  elusive  traits  of 
a  woman's  nature. 

The  cab  stopped  before  the  familiar  side  door.  Mrs. 
Gurkins,  standing  beneath  the  awning  of  the  shop 
between  the  stalls  of  cabbage  and  fruit,  gave  a  gasp  of 
bewilderment  as  she  saw  Clytie  alight  from  the  luggage- 
laden  vehicle.  She  ran  round  through  the  connecting 
passage  and  opened  the  front  door. 

"  You  are  not  coming  to  stay  here,  miss  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  only  in  moments  of  calm  reflection  that  she 
could  bring  herself  to  address  Clytie  more  decorously 
as  "ma'am." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Clytie  in  her  decisive  way. 
"  Can  I  have  my  old  rooms  ? " 

"  Of  course,  miss — but " 

"  Well,  have  my  boxes  taken  up  and  get  things  straight 
for  me,  Mrs.  Gurkins.  You  know  what  an  erratic  crea- 
ture I  am,  don't  you  ?  I  think  I  am  going  to  stay  a  very 
long  time.  I'll  go  and  see  Miss  Marchpane  while  you 
do  all  that  is  necessary.  You'll  forgive  me  for  putting 
you  to  all  this  trouble  ? " 

"  La,  miss — ma'am,  I'm  that  glad  to  have  you  back ! 
But  Miss  Marchpane  left  early  to-day — about  an  hour 
ago.  You  can  go  up  to  the  sitting-room.  I  was  clean- 
ing it  out  only  yesterday." 

Clytie  went  upstairs  to  the  familiar  room,  and  took  off 


AT  THE   GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  293 

her  bonnet  and  gloves.  In  a  few  moments  the  boxes 
were  brought  up.  When  she  had  unpacked  these  and 
arranged  their  contents,  and  eaten  as  much  as  she  could 
of  the  meal  that  Mrs.  Gurkins  prepared  for  her,  the 
glorious  afternoon  had  melted  into  night.  She  sat  by 
the  open  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  hurrying 
street  below.  It  was  a  Saturday  evening.  The  whole 
population  of  the  district  was  astir  buying  their  Sunday 
provisions  or  their  Sunday  headaches.  Bands  of  the 
youth  of  both  sexes  clattered  noisily  past,  singing 
hoarsely  or  darting  from  pavement  to  roadway  in 
loud,  dissonant  gaiety.  Along  the  kerb  stretched  the 
line  of  costers'  barrows  with  flaming  naphtha  torches, 
and  the  faces  of  the  sellers  and  buyers  stood  out  clear  in 
the  glare.  A  babel  of  sounds  arose :  the  confused 
murmur  of  private  conversations  pitched  in  the  dis- 
cordant key  of  the  unrefined,  the  raucous  cries  of  the 
costers  offering  their  wares,  the  shrill  "  Buy  !  buy !  "  of 
the  butcher  a  few  yards  away  and  the  rapid  click  of  his 
steel,  the  doleful  nasal  dirge  of  a  tramp  woman  hold- 
ing a  vague  bundle  looking  like  a  baby  in  her  arms, 
the  continuous  scraping  of  feet,  the  roar  of  the  'buses 
and  carts  in  the  roadway. 

Clytie  had  often  before  sat  on  Saturday  evenings  at 
her  window,  lost  in  the  wonder  of  speculation  upon  the 
individualities  of  the  units  that  composed  this  hurrying, 
bawling,  laughing,  cursing  crowd.  And  now  she  felt  the 
old  fascination  creep  over  her.  The  noise  and  movement 
acted  as  a  counter-stimulus  to  the  fierce  whirl  of  emo- 
tions through  which  she  had  passed  during  the  day. 
She  lost  for  the  time  the  sense  of  loneliness,  soul-sickness, 
and  bodily  prostration  in  this  external  world  of  tumult. 
What  did  it  all  mean,  this  hurry  and  strain  ?  Looked  at 
as  a  whole,  it  seemed  to  indicate  that  life  was  intense, 
earnest,  throbbing  with  infinite  variety  of  passions,  an 
end  in  itself,  to  be  carried  on,  because  it  was  life,  to  all 
eternity.  It  seemed  real,  practical,  objective,  obeying 
inscrutable,  immutable  laws.  The  planets  circle  round 
the  sun ;  our  solar  system  circles  round  another  focal 
sphere.  It  is  great,  it  is  glorious,  serving  some  great  and 
glorious  end  ;  yet  what  that  end  is  no  man  knoweth. 
And  so  with  the  collective  life  that  surged  beneath 


294  AT  THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA.    ' 

Clyde's  window,  yielding  blindly  to  the  unchanging  laws 
that  direct  the  cosmos.  If  this  movement  was  meaning- 
less and  vain,  then  did  the  stars  wander  futilely  in  their 
courses.  Sin  and  shame  and  misery,  love  and  laughter 
and  happiness,  what  did  they  matter  in  the  progress  of 
collective  life  ?  They  are  internal  forces  affecting  its 
resistless  march  as  little  as  the  incessant  motion  of  men 
affects  the  rotation  of  the  earth. 

But  the  individuals,  when  detached  from  the  conglom- 
erate mass  of  humanity  —  what  was  this  life  to  them  ? 
How  far  was  it  a  gracious  thing  to  yonder  bawling  cheap- 
jack,  with  his  red,  sodden  face?  And  the  factory  girl, 
with  her  feathered  hat  and  deep  fringe  overshadowing 
pinched,  soulless  features,  looking  hungrily  at  his  Brum- 
magem wares  ;  the  fat,  unintelligent  workman's  wife  gos- 
siping loudly  of  sickness,  death,  and  funerals  ;  the  besotted 
navvy  stumbling  along  in  the  grip  of  a  soberer  friend — 
how  far  were  they  intellectually,  spiritually,  cognisant  of 
life  ?  Again  as  of  old  these  questions  presented  them- 
selves to  Clytie.  During  these  latter  months  she  had 
been  too  closely  confronted  with  the  problems  of  her 
own  personality  to  interest  herself  in  that  of  others. 
But  now  a  newly  awakened  self-knowledge  had  given 
her  a  key  to  mysteries  to  the  elucidation  of  which  she 
had  once  devoted  all  her  artistic  powers.  She  had 
'arrived  at  the  truth  of  the  relativity  of  individual  life. 
There  was  no  such  thing  as  absolute  fulness  of  existence. 
Everyone — coster,  factory  girl,  statesman,  poet — was  striv- 
ing, each  in  his  way,  after  a  completer  life,  but  the  ideal 
ot  completeness  was  limited  by  each  individual's  capacity 
for  action,  sensation,  and  thought.  Hence  yonder  factory 
girl's  life  might  be  relatively  as  full  as  her  own,  the 
hunger  for  the  unknown  that  would  complete  it  as  loudly 
clamourous.  Clytie  was  glad  for  the  moment,  almost 
happy.  New  artistic  stirrings  seemed  to  be  at  work 
within  her  soul.  Heretofore  she  had  sought  a  solution 
for  the  problems  of  life  through  her  art.  Might  not 
this  newer  knowledge  and  more  extensive  sympathy 
enable  her  to  present  finely  perceived  truths,  thus  mak- 
ing her  art  less  self-centred,  more  universal  ? 

This  train  of  thought  was  working  through  her  mind 
as  she  sat  by  the  window,  resting  her  cheek  on  her  arm. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  295 

Gradually,  however,  the  thoughts  confused  themselves 
into  a  medley  of  dim  associations,  which  in  their  turn 
became  lost  in  drowsiness.  Worn  out  by  the  physical 
strain  of  the  day,  she  fell  asleep  in  the  midst  of  the 
uproar  that  arose  from  the  hurrying  street. 

Suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  a  presence  beside 
her  in  the  room,  and,  starting  up,  beheld  Kent  looking 
down  upon  her. 

"  You'll  get  cold  or  a  stiff  neck  or  something  sleeping 
by  the  open  window  like  that,"  he  said  in  his  kindly  way. 
"  And  yet  I  did  not  like  to  wake  you." 

"I  do  feel  a  little  cramped,"  said  Clytie,  rising.  "  But 
the  night  is  hot.  Bring  another  chair  and  sit  down.  I 
shall  not  go  to  sleep  again." 

Kent  did  as  she  bade  him,  and  they  sat  on  either  side 
of  the  window,  Clytie  with  face  half  averted  looking  into 
the  street,  Kent  leaning  forward,  gazing  at  her  with 
troubled  eyes.  For  some  moments  neither  spoke.  At 
last  Kent  broke  the  silence. 

"  Clytie ! " 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  Was  I  wrong  to  come  in  ?  Do  you  want  to  be 
alone  ?  Tell  me  frankly  and  I  will  go." 

"  No ;  stay,"  replied  Clytie  slowly,  without  turning 
her  head.  "  I  wanted  you  to  come.  I  don't  know  why. 
How  did  you  find  out  I  was  here  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Gurkins  caught  me  in  the  passage.  She  said 
you  were  staying  some  time.  I  knocked  at  your  door, 
but  you  did  not  answer,  so  I  looked  in,  saw  you  asleep 
there.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  coming 
nearer  so  as  to  see  your  face.  You  look  so  done  up, 
you  must  go  to  bed  early  and  have  a  good  night's  rest." 

"  Ah,  Kent !  How  like  you  !  "  said  Clytie,  looking 
quickly  round  at  him.  Womanlike,  she  was  pleased 
that  he  had  not  expressed  wonderment  at  her  presence 
in  the  house,  and  beset  her  with  abrupt  questions,  but 
tried  instead  with  delicate  sympathy  to  put  her  at  her 
ease. 

"  Can  you  guess  why  I  am  here,  Kent  ?  "  she  asked  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  I  dare  not  try,"  he  replied. 

"  I  have  finally  parted  from  my  husband." 


296  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Good  God  !  Clytie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  cried, 
with  a  leap  at  his  heart,  followed  by  a  feeling  of  great 
pity  for  the  woman  he  loved,  an  aching  sense  of  the 
irony  of  things.  "It  has  been  a  misunderstanding.  It 
will  all  be  cleared  up  in  time,"  he  continued  unsteadily. 

Clytie  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  thank  God,  this  is  the  end.  See  my  hand  : 
that  which  was  there  I  drew  off  to-day  for  the  first  time. 
It  shall  never  be  there  again." 

"  Clytie,  my  dear  friend  Clytie  ! "  said  Kent,  very  much 
moved.  "  What  can  I  say  to  you  ?  My  heart  aches  for 
all  that  you  must  have  suffered.  You  told  me  yesterday 
your  life  was  not  what  I  thought  it  to  be,  for  I  fancied 
you  happy,  with  all  around  you  to  make  the  world  bright 
and  glorious.  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  now.  Is 
there  no  hope  for  your  happiness  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Kent,  not  that  way.  Let  me  tell  you  at  once 
what  I  can.  Don't  judge  me  severely.  I  did  what  lay 
in  my  nature  to  do.  I  bore  things  that  nearly  drove  me 
mad,  although  perhaps  many  other  women  would  not 
have  looked  on  them  as  burdens.  But  my  marriage  was 
a  mistake — for  both  of  us.  And  then — oh,  how  can  I  tell 
you  ?  Something  happened  to-day,  the  climax,  render- 
ing further  life  there  impossible.  Oh,  I  can't  speak  or 
even  think  of  it !  " 

Her  voice  ended  in  a  moan  and  a  shivering  catch  of 
her  breath,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
Kent  leaped  to  his  feet  quivering  with  a  sudden  intui- 
tion. 

"Clytie,  you  have  been  wronged  far  more  than  by 
mere  misunderstanding.  Did  he  dare " 

"  Yes — yes.     Don't  think  of  it.     It's  all  over." 

"  But  I  must  think  of  it.  It  is  like  a  red-hot  iron  in 
my  heart.  I  can't  bear  it.  All  last  night  I  lay  awake 
thinking  of  your  unhappiness,  tortured  by  regrets,  hating 
the  man  who  made  your  life  a  weariness  to  you.  I 
never  thought  of  this.  The  coward  !  The  brute  !  Oh, 
my  God  !  " 

And  as  he  strode  up  and  down  the  room,  with  set  lips 
and  clenched  hands,  Clytie  looked  at  him  half-wonder- 
ingly.  She  had  never  seen  her  calm,  strong  Kent  so 
moved  by  passion.  She  went  up  to  him,  with  natural 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  297 

impulse,  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  looked 
into  his  face. 

"  You  need  never  speak  or  think  of  this  again,  Kent. 
It  is  all  over,  buried.  For  nearly  a  year  we  have  lived 
almost  as  separated  as  we  shall  do  henceforward.  I 
have  come  to  be  Clytie  Davenant  once  again,  to  lead  the 
old  life  of  work  and  happiness  with  you  and  Winifred. 
I  can  blot  out  the  past  eighteen  months  like  an  evil 
dream  in  which  I  have  suffered  much  and  learned 
much.  We  can  work  together  as  we  used  to  do,  Kent, 
and  you  will  find  me,  I  hope,  a  better,  gentler  woman, 
dear.  Now  forget  all  about  it,  as  I  shall  do.  Remember 
what  you  said  yesterday — that  no  life  was  so  wrecked 
as  to  be  incapable  of  reconstruction.  You  cannot  tell 
what  comfort  you  gave  me.  And  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
happiness  I  passed  through  this  morning — before — ah, 

well Oh,  Kent,  my  true,  loyal  Kent !  I  am  a  very 

weak  woman,  and  I  want  your  goodness  and  help  and 
tenderness.  You  can  do  nothing  to  help  or  avenge 
what  has  passed.  You  can  do  all  for  me  in  the  future 
if  you  will." 

"  What  I  can  do  is  small  enough,  God  knows  !  "  replied 
Kent. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  can  do  for  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  me." 

"  Let  me  forget  myself  and  my  selfish  wants  in  try- 
ing to  bring  some  help  and  gladness  into  your  life.  I 
wronged  you  deeply  once — I  wronged  myself ;  let  me 
make  reparation." 

Kent  turned  aside  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead. 

"  You  must  not  think  of  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  am  rough  and  strong,  with  no  particular  burdens  to 
bear.  Some  day  or  the  other,  when  you  are  happy,  I 
will  come  to  you  with  my  little  griefs  for  the  sake  of 
having  them  charmed  away  by  your  sympathy ;  but 
until  then  let  me  think  of  you — help  you  if  I  can.  If  I 
can't,  Heaven  knows  it  will  not  be  for  want  of  longing 
to  do  so." 

"  Kent,"  said  Clytie  very  softly,  unconsciously  moving 
nearer  to  him,  "  I  am  happy  now.  Can't  you  see  that  I 
am  ? " 


298  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

Kent's  heart  beat  like  a  sledge  hammer  ;  a  wave  of 
passionate  love  swept  through  his  veins,  thrilling  him  to 
the  finger  tips.  He  was  conscious  that  if  he  turned  his 
face  the  hair  on  her  forehead  would  brush  his  cheek. 
Never  before  had  a  woman  spoken  to  him  in  that  strange 
tone.  The  world  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Then  in  a 
blinding  daze  of  light,  in  which  all  things  in  heaven  and 
earth  were  drowned,  he  turned,  caught  her  to  him,  and 
kissed  her. 

Slowly  Clytie  freed  herself,  held  out  a  restraining 
hand,  and,  with  steps  strangely  faltering,  moved  across 
the  room  to  the  couch,  where  she  sat  down  and  hid 
her  face  in  the  cushions.  Kent  paused  for  a  moment, 
steadying  his  senses  still  reeling  from  the  shock  of  the 
first  kiss  of  love  he  had  ever  given  to  woman.  Then  he 
went  and  stood  by  her  side. 

"  Forgive  me,  Clytie.  It  was  base  of  me.  But  it  was 
something  beyond  my  will  that  acted.  You  forget  that 
I  love  you.  I  have  wronged  you,  my  queen,  my  life  ! 
If  you  can  ever  trust  me  again,  I  will  devote  myself  to 
making  you  forget  that  I  have  dared  to  love  you.  I  ask 
your  pardon,  Clytie." 

He  stayed  for  a  moment  looking  at  her  bowed  figure. 
Then,  as  she  gave  no  sign  that  she  was  moved  by  his 
appeal,  he  left  her,  and  with  a  strange  mingling  of  death 
and  gladness  in  his  heart  walked  lingeringly  to  the 
door.  But  just  as  his  hand  was  on  the  knob  Clytie  rose 
impulsively  from  the  couch,  and  with  hair  ruffled  and  her 
cheeks  glowing  came  up  to  him,  and  it  was  she  who 
opened  the  door. 

"  You  are  pardoned,  dear,  for  I  love  you." 

A  moment  later  she  was  alone.  And  she  resumed  her 
position  by  the  open  window,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
busy  scene.  But  she  heeded  it  not.  Her  sight  was 
directed  to  the  mysteries  of  an  invisible  world. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CLYTIE'S  last  words  rang  in  Kent's  ears  all  night. 
She  loved  him.  She  had  surrendered  herself  to  his  kiss, 
she  had  told  him  her  heart  in  plain,  unequivocal  language. 
In  the  first  blaze  of  this  happiness  he  did  not  perceive 
the  gloomy  background  of  their  love.  All  that  he  could 
feel  was  that  Clytie  had  left  the  life  to  which  he  had 
been  a  stranger,  that  she  had  come  bsck  to  live  in  his 
daily  company  in  the  old  helpful  way,  that,  furthermore, 
her  simple  friendship  had  changed  into  something  un- 
utterably sweeter.  He  looked  into  the  future  and  found 
it  glowing  with  many  rose  tints  of  beauty.  He  saw 
Clytie  and  himself  carrying  out  to  its  fullest  his  brave 
gospel  of  work — to  its  fullest  because  of  their  belief  and 
trust  in  one  another.  He  saw  Clytie  painting  noble 
pictures,  drawing  strength  and  confidence  from  his  sym- 
pathy— himself  stimulated  to  great  achievement,  the 
prose  of  life  transmuted  into  sonorous  epic,  lyrical  glad- 
ness, elegiac  grace.  The  fever  in  his  blood  kept  him 
awake  as  image  after  image  passed  before  his  fancy.  But 
whether  the  vision  was  of  Clytie  walking  by  his  side 
through  the  gaslit  streets,  or  of  Clytie's  glorious  head 
strained  back  to  view  the  effect  of  brush  strokes  he  had 
suggested,  or  of  Clytie  sitting  by  the  table  as  he  worked, 
the  lamp  between  them,  it  ended  always  with  the  warm 
touch  of  Clytie's  lips  beneath  his,  and  the  low,  clear 
voice,  "  I  love  you." 

This  exaltation  is  common  to  most  men  when  a  strong 
love  comes  to  them.  But  to  Kent  it  was  all  the  in- 
tenser  through  the  peculiarities  of  his  nature.  He  had 
lived  without  the  sphere  of  women.  The  passionateness 
of  his  temperament  had  thrown  itself  utterly  into  another 
channel.  His  work  had  been  his  love,  his  wife,  the 
centre  of  all  his  energies,  all  his  hopes.  The  craving 
for  the  unknown  complement  of  existence  had  found 
satisfaction  in  the  added  line  upon  line,  the  growing 


300  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

bulk  of  manuscript,  the  builder's  thrill  when  the  creation 
of  his  own  brain  is  materialising  itself  course  by  course 
into  a  majestic  edifice.  Besides,  action,  whether  it  was 
spending  hours  in  a  musty  library  in  the  exciting  search 
after  a  reference,  or  tramping  for  miles  in  the  keen 
mountain  air  of  Norway,  always  fascinated  him  and  com- 
pelled the  entire  energy  of  his  being.  He  beheld  the 
earth  after  his  wholesome  fashion  and  saw  that  it  was 
good.  To  him  life  was  complete.  Things,  therefore,  not 
contained  within  his  sphere  he  looked  upon  as  superflui- 
ties. Woman  was  a  superfluity  ;  the  impulses  of  sex 
repugnant.  The  very  intensity  of  his  nature  made  him 
shrink  all  the  more  strenuously  from  the  sexual  principle 
upon  which  love  is  built.  When,  however,  love  came  to 
him,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  dazed  with  it,  terrified. 
On  that  January  morning  when  he  buried  his  face  in  the 
faint  perfume  of  Clytie's  handkerchief  he  felt  himself 
overcome  with  a  kind  of  horror.  The  fierce  conscious- 
ness that  he  would  give  his  soul  to  hold  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  her  hair  and  eyes  and  lips  was  to  him  a  torture 
of  debasement.  This  morbidness  was  due  only  to  the 
violence  of  the  reaction.  It  lasted  but  a  short  while,  and 
toned  down  into  a  feeling  of  disloyalty  to  Clytie's  friend- 
ship in  daring  to  love  her.  But  time  at  last  adjusted 
his  moral  balance,  when  it  was  too  late,  and  Clytie  was 
lost  to  him.  And  then  his  love  was  purified  into  a  deep, 
passionate  devotion  that  was  its  own  joy  and  recompense. 
If  circumstances  had  remained  unchanged,  Kent  would 
have  carried  this  deeper  than  romantic  love  with  him 
to  the  grave.  It  had  grown  into  his  inmost  heart,  in- 
forming that  subconsciousness  that  makes  a  man's  indi- 
vidual life.  Even  during  the  last  few  months,  when  they 
were  meeting  in  frank,  friendly  fashion,  his  love  had 
altered  very  little  in  kind.  He  believed  her  to  be  a 
happy  wife,  loving  her  husband,  with  whom  in  a 
moment  of  bitterness  he  had  once  silently  measured 
himself.  The  precious  boon  of  her  friendship  was  re- 
gained, nothing  more,  and  it  was  given  to  him,  under  no 
false  pretences  on  his  part,  but  all  the  more  tenderly  be- 
cause she  knew  of  his  devotion.  Secure  in  the  impres- 
sion of  her  happiness,  he  would  never  have  wavered  in 
word  or  thought  from  his  straightforward,  simple  loyalty, 


AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  301 

and  his  days  would  have  passed  in  quiet  contentment, 
saddened  a  little,  perhaps,  by  regrets  for  what  might 
have  been,  but  never  tormented  by  longings  for  the  im- 
possible. 

But  conditions  were  no  longer  the  same.  Clytie  had 
renounced  her  married  life.  Except  as  a  memory  of 
bitterness  it  had  no  place  in  her  thoughts.  Except  by  a 
legal  fiction  she  was  her  own  mistress  once  more,  free  to 
go  and  come,  think  and  act.  Even  in  name  she  would 
be  Clytie  Davenant  again,  and  she  had  spoken  to  him  in 
that  strange  tone  he  had  never  heard  before,  and  had 
come  nearer  to  him  as  her  touch  lay  upon  his  arm.  The 
whole  pent  up  passion  of  Kent's  life  had  gone  forth  into 
that  kiss.  For  Kent  the  world  was  changed,  and  the 
night  a  dream  of  unutterable  things.  But  by  the  morn- 
ing it  had  brought  counsel.  This  love,  acknowledged 
on  both  sides — whither  would  it  tend  ?  A  great  problem. 
So  great  a  one,  indeed,  that  Kent  was  tempted  to  shirk 
grappling  with  it.  Courage  and  a  stout  heart,  he  said 
to  himself,  and  all  would  be  well.  But  one  cannot  rid 
one's  self  in  this  easy  way  of  responsibilities.  If  you 
shake  them  from  your  shoulders,  they  shackle  themselves 
about  your  feet.  Kent  felt  thus  fettered  as  he  lay  awake. 
Moreover,  his  early  misgivings  concerning  Hammerdyke 
came,  like  the  curses  in  the  proverb,  home  to  roost.  If 
he  had  spoken  to  Clytie  then,  before  her  marriage,  possi- 
bly she  might  have  been  spared  all  this  suffering.  He 
wished  that  he  had  obtained  from  Wither  all  the  particu- 
lars of  the  ugly  rumours  that  had  been  afloat,  investigated 
them,  confronted  Clytie  bravely  with  the  truth,  and  so 
saved  her  from  wrecking  her  life.  And  yet  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  have  done  so.  Well,  what  was  past  was  past. 
The  present  and  the  future  contained  enough  matter  to 
engage  his  attention.  He  lay  for  some  time  in  bed  try- 
ing to  solve  these  perplexities.  At  last,  at  half-past  nine, 
he  rose,  dressed,  and  went  into  his  sitting-room  to  pre- 
pare his  breakfast.  This  was  a  simple  process.  On  a 
couple  of  gas-stoves,  connected  by  india-rubber  piping 
with  the  two  gas-jets  in  his  room,  he  placed  a  kettle  and 
a  saucepan,  the  latter  containing  eggs.  Then  he  spread 
a  little  cloth  on  a  clear  space  of  his  dresser-table,  and 
brought  out  his  crockery  and  other  breakfast  requisites 


302  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

from  one  of  the  under-cupboards.  A  ham  somewhat 
cut  into,  butter,  and  marmalade  he  procured  from  a  safe 
in  a  third  little  room  on  the  landing  which  he  used  as  a 
combined  larder  and  lumber-room.  For  years  Kent  had 
enjoyed  the  simple  Bohemianism  of  this  Sunday  morning 
meal.  He  could  linger  over  it  easefully  without  the 
weekday  glance  at  his  watch,  when  time  was  short. 
There  was  the  Sunday  paper,  a  weekly  review  or  two, 
the  long,  undisturbed  after-breakfast  pipe.  It  was  a  time 
when  he  could  release  himself  with  free  conscience  from 
his  busy  life  and  enjoy  his  leisure.  But  this  morning 
the  eggs  seemed  stale,  the  ham  tasteless,  the  journals 
dull,  and  he  found  himself  looking  at  his  watch.  He 
would  go  down  and  see  Clytie  at  eleven,  an  hour  which 
he  had  himself  arbitrarily  fixed  upon,  and  he  was  count- 
ing the  minutes.  It  is  surprising  how  long  minutes  are 
when  you  count  sixty  of  them. 

At  last  eleven  o'clock  came  and  Kent  descended  the 
stairs.  But  Clytie  was  out.  Mrs.  Gurkins,  who  an- 
swered his  ring  on  Clytie's  bell,  informed  him  that 
Miss  Davenant  would  not  be  in  for  lunch.  Perhaps  she 
would  be  back  during  the  afternoon.  So  Kent  went  up- 
stairs again,  disappointed,  and,  after  vainly  trying  to 
occupy  himself,  seized  his  hat  and  went  out  for  a  long 
tramp  through  Putney  and  Wimbledon.  His  heart  was 
full  of  strange  emotions  that  beset  him  for  many  hours, 
making  them  seem  hopelessly  long.  Of  the  two  Clytie 
passed  by  far  the  happier  day. 

In  the  afternoon,  on  his  return,  he  heard  voices  in 
the  studio.  He  knocked  and  entered.  Clytie  was  there 
with  Winifred. 

"  Can  I  come  in  ? " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Clytie.  "  Why  do  you  ask  ?  We 
have  been  expecting  you  ever  so  long.  In  fact  we  have 
kept  tea  waiting  for  you." 

He  put  down  his  hat  and  stick,  nodded  as  usual  to 
Winifred,  and  advanced,  through  force  of  later  habit, 
with  outstretched  hand,  to  Clytie.  She  laid  her  fingers 
in  his  slowly,  looked  up  at  him  from  her  chair  by  the 
stove,  and  laughed. 

"  You  forget  I  am  no  longer  a  visitor,  Kent,"  she  said 
rebukingly. 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  303 

"  Only  this  once,  then,"  he  answered,  "  to  welcome  you 
back  among  us." 

"  Where  have  you  learned  to  make  pretty  speeches  ?  " 
asked  Clytie. 

She  was  pleased  with  the  words  and  gave  his  hand  a 
sudden  pressure. 

Kent  brought  a  chair  up  to  where  Clytie  and  Winifred 
were  sitting,  tried  to  talk  lightly,  and  failed.  A  silence 
came  over  the  little  party.  Tea  caused  a  distraction, 
and  they  fell  to  discussing  indifferent  subjects,  odds  and 
ends  of  gossip,  but  in  a  desultory  fashion  that  each 
found  strange.  At  last  Clytie  rose,  cut  the  Gordian  knot 
in  her  impulsive  way. 

"  I  am  going  to  do  one  or  two  things  in  the  sitting- 
room,"  she  said.  "  You  two  have  a  talk  until  I  come 
back." 

Kent  opened  the  door  for  her.  On  the  threshold  she 
turned  and  whispered  to  him  :  "  Talk  to  Winifred  a  little. 
You  will  do  each  other  good." 

He  closed  the  door  after  her  and  went  back  to 
Winifred. 

"  So  we  have  her  with  us  again." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  gently,  "  and  I  don't  know  whether 
to  feel  sorry  or  glad." 

"  Did  you  know — had  you  any  idea  that  she  was  un- 
happy ?  I  never  knew  till  yesterday — or  the  day  before." 

"  I  think  I  knew — before — perhaps  because  I  am  a 
woman.  It  made  my  heart  ache." 

"  But  she  is  not  unhappy  now,"  said  Kent.  "  There- 
fore you  ought  to  be  glad." 

Winifred  glanced  at  him  swiftly.  In  spite  of  the 
brown  softness  of  her  eyes  they  were  woman's  eyes, 
capable  of  quick,  subtle  perceptions. 

"  But  will  she  be  happy,  Kent  ? "  she  asked,  bending 
down  over  her  needlework.  As  she  had  not  been  able 
to  paint,  she  had  taken  in  hand,  by  way  of  feminine  com- 
fort, some  sewing  for  Clytie. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  man's  prefer- 
ence to  answer  a  concrete  question  rather  than  a  deli- 
cately hinted  suggestion. 

"  Will  not  this  tie  that  cannot  be  loosed  hamper  her 
all  through  her  life  ? " 


304  AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  God  knows  !  "  he  said  gloomily.  And  then,  brighten- 
ing, he  added  :  "  But  we  have  her  with  us  for  always, 
Winifred,  and  we  who  love  her  can  try  to  make  her 
forget  it." 

"Ah,  can  we,  my  dear  Kent?"  she  said,  putting  her 
work  and  both  hands  in  her  lap  and  looking  at  him. 
"You  love  her,  but  you  can't  love  her  as  I  do.  Oh,  no, 
no,"  she  added  as  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "  You 
may  think  you  do,  but  it  is  not  possible.  You  have 
found  faults  in  Clytie  and  scolded  her — oh,  very  kindly 
and  sympathetically,  I  know ;  but  still  in  your  eyes 
Clytie  can  do  wrong.  In  mine  she  can't — and  there  is 
the  difference.  Clytie  is  not  like  other  girls.  She  is 
like  no  one  in  the  world.  Everything  must  give  way  to 
her.  If  Clytie  were  to  do  something  you  would  think 
dreadful — commit  a  murder — I  feel  that  she  would  be 
justified  in  doing  it,  and  I  should  love  her  all  the  more 
tenderly  and  dearly." 

"  God  bless  your  loving  little  heart  ! "  cried  Kent. 
"  Love  like  yours  could  make  the  most  miserable  crea- 
ture on  earth  happy." 

"  Ah,  no,  Kent.  What  could  I  do  for  her  ?  Listen  :  I 
was  a  poor,  friendless,  ignorant,  uninteresting  little  girl 
when  I  first  met  Clytie.  And  she  was  kind  to  me.  She 
seemed  so  brave  and  strong  and  clever  and  beautiful, 
I  quite  shrank  from  her.  I  felt  so  small  and  humble 
beside  her.  And  she  singled  me  out  from  among  all 
the  rest  of  the  girls  at  the  Slade  School,  and  made 
me  her  friend.  I  never  could  tell  what  she  found 
in  me." 

"  She  can  tell,  and  I  can,  too,"  exclaimed  Kent  with 
abrupt  enthusiasm — "  the  purest,  tenderest  flower  of  a 
soul  that  ever  breathed  !  " 

"Oh,  Kent !  "  said  Winifred  as  the  colour  rose  to  her 
dark  cheeks.  "  You  must  not  say  things  like  that. 
Clytie  has  done  everything  for  me,  everything — 
and  I " 

"  You  have  helped  Clytie  as  no  one  else  could  have 
done,"  said  Kent,  "  and  you  are  doing  it  now." 

" Am  I  ? " 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  see  how  bright  and  happy  you  have 
made  her? " 


AT    THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  3°S 

"  She  is  brighter  than  I  should  have  thought,"  said 
Winifred  musingly.  "But  will  it  last?" 

"We  must  try  to  make  it  lasting,  you  and  I,"  said 
Kent  softly. 

He  pondered  for  a  moment  over  the  love  in  each  of 
their  hearts,  the  girl's  and  the  man's.  How  exquisitely 
pure  and  selfless  hers  seemed  to  be  !  He  could  not 
realise  it  in  all'its  beauty,  but  his  perceptions  had  been 
refined  enough  for  him  to  be  profoundly  touched. 

"  You  have  taught  me  something,  Winifred,"  he  said 
after  a  pause,  during  which  she  had  quietly  resumed 
her  sewing.  "  I  am  happier  than  I  have  been  all 
day." 

Clyde  returned  soon  afterwards.  She  looked  curiously 
at  the  faces  of  her  two  friends,  and  then,  divining,  per- 
haps, something  of  what  had  passed  between  them,  went 
up  to  Winifred  and  kissed  her.  After  this  they  talked 
more  freely — of  old  habits,  plans  for  the  future.  The 
latter  were  vague,  for  Winifred's  marriage  with  Treherne 
was  fixed  for  the  early  part  of  the  next  year,  and  the 
studio  without  Winifred  was  unrealisable.  Still  the 
plans  were  food  for  much  intimate  gossip,  which  some 
may  liken  to  the  very  salt  of  life. 

When  Winifred  had  gone,  Kent  went  with  Clytie  into 
the  sitting-room,  where,  furnished  with  hammer  and 
nails,  he  hung  the  few  pictures  that  Clytie  had  brought 
with  her,  together  with  some  that  had  been  lying  about 
the  studio.  It  was  a  delight  to  him  to  perform  this 
little  service  for  her,  and  she  too  felt  the  woman's  happi- 
ness of  being  surrendered  to  a  man's  helpfulness.  He 
fetched  from  his  own  rooms  a  bookstand,  which  he 
secured  against  the  wall,  a  few  curios,  and  an  armful  of 
the  dainty  cushions,  chair  backs,  and  curtain  sashes  with 
which  his  sister  Agatha  in  misguided  zeal  had  years  ago 
supplied  his  drawers  and  cupboards. 

"  They  are  not  as  artistic  as  your  odds  and  ends,  you 
know,"  he  said  by  way  of  apology.  "  But  until  you  can 
get  some  together  they  will  be  more  cheerful  to  look  at 
than  Mrs.  Gurkins's  efforts." 

He  had  just  completed  his  scheme  of  decoration  when 
Mrs.  Gurkinscame  up  to  lay  the  cloth  for  Clytie's  dinner. 
Clytie  detained  him  as  he  was  about  to  go. 


306  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

"  Won't  you  stay  and  dine  with  me  ?  "  she  said  half 
timidly. 

She  felt  that  she  could  not  dismiss  him.  To  do  so 
on  conventional  grounds  would  be  the  silliest  prudery. 
Besides,  a  sense  of  helplessness  had  come  over  her,  and 
she  wanted  him  by  her  side,  longed  for  him  to  think  and 
act  for  her.  The  touch  of  any  incident  bordering  ever 
so  slightly  on  the  dramatic  would  at  that  moment  have 
sufficed  to  free  the  spring  of  feminine  reserve  and  loosen 
passionate  expression  of  her  longing  for  his  presence. 
But  the  simple  commonplace  of  the  situation  saved  her. 
Kent's  eyes  brightened  at  the  invitation. 

"  And  we  can  have  a  long  evening  afterwards?"  he 
asked  half  pleadingly. 

"  Of  course,  "  said  Clytie,  with  an  inward  smile. 

On  Monday  morning  Kent,  as  he  was  starting  for  the 
Museum,  put  his  head  in  at  Clytie's  sitting-room  door. 
She  was  at  breakfast,  having  risen  rather  later  than 
usual.  By  her  side  was  an  open  letter.  As  Kent 
entered  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  looked  up  at 
him,  a  gleam  of  gladness  eclipsing  in  her  eyes  a  late 
expression  of  pain.  Kent  noticed  the  sudden  change. 

"  You  have  been  sad,  Clytie,"  he  said  in  his  rough 
tenderness.  "  That  is  not  right.  Did  you  not  promise 
me  last  evening  that  you  would  be  happy,  very 
happy?" 

"  So  I  shall  be,"  she  answered,  taking  his  hand  in  hers 
and  turning  away  her  head.  "  Only  there  are  things 
that  cut  one  to  the  heart.  You  are  a  man .;  you  can't 
understand  a  woman — no  man  can,  no  matter  how  he 
loves  her.  Look,  read  that — the  end  of  the  sordid  story 
of  my  latter  life.  Oh,  Kent,  I  am  not  worth  your  love  ! 
This  thing  has  degraded  me  enough,  and  this  last 

insult Oh,  read  it  and  see.  It  would  be  better  that 

you  should  know  of  how  little  account  I  really  am." 

Kent  took  the  letter  which  she  thrust  into  his  hand, 
and,  without  having  read  it,  tore  it  into  tiny  pieces  which 
he  scattered  through  the  open  window  to  the  four  winds. 
Then  he  came  and  put  one  arm  around  her. 

"  Because  one  man  insults  you,  dear,  it  is  all  the  more 
reason  that  I  should  love  and  shield  you.  That  part  of 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  307 

your  life  is  dead  now.  You  said  yourself  this  letter  was 
the  end.  Let  it  be  so,  Clytie." 

His  delicacy  and  tenderness  moved  her  very  deeply. 
Womanlike,  she  had  wanted  him  to  read  the  paper,  and 
yet  loved  him  all  the  more  for  not  having  done  so.  The 
letter  was  her  own  note  to  Thornton,  which  he  had 
returned  with  "  You  can  go  to  the  devil !  "  scrawled 
across  it.  The  sheer  brutality  had  made  her  lose,  as  it 
were,  her  self-respect,  had  presented  her  to  her  own 
eyes  as  a  thing  of  naught,  unworthy  of  the  reverential 
love  that  Kent  brought  her.  How  could  she  honestly  be 
to  him  the  brightest  and  noblest  of  women  with  that 
scrawled  thing  dragging  her  down  ?  Accordingly  his 
actions  and  words  gladdened  her.  She  looked  up  at 
him,  and  he  read  as  in  some  magical  book  the  spell  of 
tenderness  that  swam  in  her  eyes.  Then  he  threw  him- 
self on  his  knees  before  her  and  buried  his  face  in  her 
lap. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  love  !  " 

And,  stirred  to  her  depths  with  a  passionate  thrill  that 
was  like  a  great  pain,  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck 
and  kissed  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Two  years  passed,  outwardly  uneventful,  yet  momen- 
tous in  the  development  of  inner  life.  Her  marriage 
sometimes  appeared  to  Clytie  as  a  far-away  episode,  a 
kind  of  dream  state  in  which  she  had  been  invested  with 
a  strange,  unrealisable  personality.  Yet  influences  had 
remained,  impulses  had  been  awakened,  that  could  not 
again  lie  dormant ;  knowledge  had  come  to  her  that 
could  not  lapse  into  oblivion,  leaving  no  trace  behind. 
In  her  daily  intercourse  with  Kent  her  nature  expanded. 
It  lost  imperceptibly  that  vein  of  hardness  which  her 
struggle  for  self-development  had  fostered,  and  the  dis- 
illusions and  repugnances  of  her  marriage  had  gradually 
been  strengthening.  Except  in  a  brief  interval  of 
intoxication  she  had  never  known  the  woman's  sweetness 
of  surrender.  The  great  triumph  of  surrender  had  never 
even  then  been  hers.  And  this  was  gradually  making 
itself  felt  in  her  heart  during  the  two  years  that  passed 
from  the  time  of  leaving  her  husband's  roof. 

They  contained  hours  of  sweet  bitterness,  it  is  true. 
Although  Thornton  had  gone  out  of  her  life  like  an  evil 
phantom,  yet  the  legal  tie  between  them  remained 
unbroken.  Mrs.  Farquharson,  who  seldom  did  things  by 
halves,  after  seeing  her  idol  broken  trampled  it  under- 
foot into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  vehemently  tried  to 
persuade  Clytie  to  seek  after  a  divorce.  She  even 
insisted  upon  her  taking  counsel's  opinion  on  the  matter. 
But  there  was  no  definite  evidence  obtainable  to  support 
an  action  at  law,  and  Clytie,  sick  at  heart,  was  glad  to 
dismiss  the  question  from  her  mind  forever.  Yet  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world  she  was  Hammerdyke's  wife,  and  so 
she  would  have  to  remain  until  death  parted  them. 
Perhaps  when  enlightenment  sheds  a  fuller  ray  upon 
our  civilisation  we  shall  make  radical  changes  in  our 
marriage  laws,  for  they  are  based  upon  the  sad  old 

308 


AT   THE    GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  309 

fallacy  that  human  conduct  and  human  emotion  are 
indifferently  susceptible  of  regulation.  As  yet  we  can 
universalise  only  on  material  things  :  security  of  prop- 
erty, full  stomachs,  and  warm  backs  for  the  poor.  The 
facts  of  broken  lives  and  torn  hearts  we  can  recognise 
only  in  particular  instances,  as  they  come  within  each 
man's  individual  sphere.  The  universality  of  spiritual, 
moral,  and  emotional  suffering  is  as  yet  far  from  being 
a  national  conception.  When  this  is  attained  we  may 
hope  for  social  conditions  happier  than  those  under 
which  we  struggle  at  present. 

Thornton  had  taken  the  most  effectual  steps  to  become 
an  undisturbing  element  in  Clytie's  life.  The  constitu- 
ency for  which  he  had  intrigued  and  striven  to  be  nomi- 
nated did  not  return  him  at  the  bye-election,  which  took 
place  soon  after  Clytie's  departure,  but  chose  instead  a 
radical  lawyer  with  an  insignificant  presence  and  a  shaki- 
ness  as  to  aspirates.  Thornton  was  disgusted  and 
humiliated  at  his  defeat.  Politics  lost  their  charm.  An 
offer  from  the  Belgian  government  to  reform  the  adminis- 
tration in  a  wide  tract  of  country  whose  borders  were  in- 
fested with  Arabs  came  to  him  at  this  juncture,  and 
found  him  in  a  mood  for  acceptance.  He  bade  Mrs. 
Clavering  a  sardonic  farewell  and  replunged  into  the 
wilds  out  of  English  ken. 

Winifred  only  remained  in  the  King's  Road  for  a  few 
months.  Early  in  the  new  year  she  married  Treherne, 
and  Clyde  was  left  alone.  The  studio  seemed  very  for- 
lorn for  some  time  afterwards,  robbed,  as  it  were,  of  an 
inherent  tender  grace,  a  softening,  refining  influence  that 
had  always  been  dear  to  Clytie,  even  in  her  days  of 
greatest  wilfulness.  Yet  it  gladdened  her  to  know  that 
Winifred  was  happy — married  to  a  man  of  fine  fibre  who 
could  value  the  exquisite  gift  that  the  high  gods  had 
given  him. 

"  You  are  a  lucky  girl,  dear,"  she  said  to  the  young 
bride  one  day  when  visiting  her  in  her  new  home. 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  replied  \Vinifred  enthusiastically. 
"  A  man  like  Victor " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Clytie  drily.  "I  know.  He  is  all 
perfection.  But  the  man  doesn't  live  who  is  fit  to  black 
your  boots,  my  child.  I  did  not  mean  that ;  I  meant  that 


310  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

you  were  a  lucky  girl  in  having  eluded  your  obvious 
destiny." 

Winifred  looked  at  her  open-eyed. 

"  I  always  used  to  think  somewhat  sadly  about  you," 
Clytie  went  on.  "  I  seemed  to  read  in  your  face  and 
eyes  that  you  would  marry  a  man  quite  unworthy  of  you, 
who  would  ill  treat  you,  and  that  you  would  love  him 
more  as  he  became  worse,  that  your  life  would  be  a 
dreadful,  purposeless  sacrifice.  And  now  you  see  how 
you  have  escaped.  Victor  is  just  the  husband  I  could 
have  picked  out  for  you.  So  you  are  a  lucky  girl." 

"  I  wish  you  were  as  happy  as  I  am,  darling,"  said 
Winifred,  looking  at  her  somewhat  wistfully  through  her 
own  gladness. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  replied  Clytie,  with  a  flush.  "  Who 
knows  ?  Utter  completion  of  existence  is  not  possible 
in  this  imperfect  world  of  ours  ;  and  if  my  life  has  its 
gaps  that  ache  a  little,  yet  it  has  its  fulness,  believe  me, 
dear.  I  am  happier  now  than  I  have  ever  been.  After 
all,  the  gaps  matter  very  little." 

"  Now  you  are  getting  somewhat  beyond  me,"  said 
Winifred.  "  I  can't  quite  follow  you." 

"  Ah,  you  needn't,  Winnie  dear,"  replied  Clytie. 
"  Only  go  on  loving  and  trusting  me.  Don't  you  see 
that  I  am  happy  because  I  too  have  a  good  man's  love  ?  " 

"  But  if — if  you  had  been — if  things  were  different — 
you  might  have  married,"  said  Winifred  hesitatingly. 

"  That  does  not  make  the  love  less  beautiful  and  life- 
giving,"  replied  Clytie. 

This  and  other  conversations  of  a  like  tenor  succeeded 
finally  in  allaying  Winifred's  doubts  as  to  Clytie's  happi- 
ness. An  uneasy  burden  was  lifted  off  her  mind,  glad 
as  her  heart  was  in  the  new  joy  of  her  marriage.  Hence- 
forth she  was  content  to  take  Clytie's  assurances,  and  to 
trust  in  her  own  rooted  idea  that  Clytie's  deep,  complex 
nature  was  beyond  the  reach  of  her  simple  comprehen- 
sion, and  ungovernable  by  the  canons  that  regulated 
commoner  clay.  Strong  in  this  faith,  she  triumphed  in 
the  first  little  conflict  of  opinion  that  arose  between  her- 
self and  her  husband.  Fine  and  generous  as  his  views 
were,  he  had,  nevertheless,  a  strict  churchman's  regard 
for  the  proprieties  of  life.  The  recognised  intimacy 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA  311 

between  Clytie  and  Kent,  harmless  as  it  appeared  before 
Clytie's  marriage,  had  begun  to  cause  him  certain  uneasi- 
ness. He  was  fond  of  them  both,  partly  for  their  own 
sakes,  partly  on  account  of  his  wife.  An  unkind  thought 
concerning  them  hurt  his  sensitive  nature,  and  yet,  as 
time  went  on,  such  thoughts  began  painfully  to  formu- 
late themselves  in  his  mind.  At  last  his  conscience 
forced  him  to  broach  the  subject  to  Winifred.  She  lis- 
tened with  a  little  flush  of  spirit  in  her  cheek,  and  then 
broke  into  such  a  warm  torrent  of  words  that  Treherne 
was  fairly  amazed.  He  had  never  dreamed  that  his 
gentle,  brown-eyed  wife  could  be  capable  of  such  pas- 
sionateness.  Her  logic  of  devotion  overmastered  his 
scruples,  and  he  was  almost  converted  to  Winifred's 
unswerving  faith.  At  any  rate,  from  that  time  forth  he 
was  Clytie's  firm  friend  and  ally. 

During  these  two  years  Clytie  was  in  some  need  of 
friends.  The  society  in  which  she  had  moved  during 
her  married  life  was  a  world  unknown  to  her  now. 
Only  the  circle  of  her  girlhood's  acquaintances  remained, 
and  of  these  some  manifested  disapprobation  at  the 
mode  of  life  she  had  adopted.  Every  staunch  adherent 
was  therefore  of  inestimable  value,  and  half  uncon- 
sciously she  clung  to  every  hand  held  out  in  friendship. 

The  resumption  of  her  life  with  Kent  had  produced 
also  great  tension  in  her  relations  with  Durdleham. 
Finally  it  snapped  them  entirely. 

"  I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose,"  wrote  Mrs,  Blather  in 
the  last  letter  that  passed  between  them,  "  that  every- 
thing is  not  most  innocent  and  honourable  on  both  sides. 
But  your  conduct  is  grossly  imprudent  and  must  inevita- 
bly give  rise  to  most  painful  scandal.  It  is  your  duty 
both  to  the  name  you  bear  (painful  though  the  associa- 
tions connected  with  it  may  be)  and  to  that  which  you 
had  from  papa  to  put  yourself  beyond  the  reach  of 
calumny  by  living  no  longer  beneath  the  same  roof  as 
Mr.  Kent.  Until  you  do  so  papa  and  Janet  and  myself 
will  consider  that  any  regard  you  may  have  had  either 
for  ourselves  personally  or  for  our  honour  as  a  family 
has  entirely  gone,  and,  I  grieve  to  say  it,  our  doors, 
though  not  our  hearts,  will  have  to  be  closed  against 
you." 


312  AT   THE   GATE    OF  SAMARIA. 

Clytie  read  her  condemnation  very  sadly.  She  could 
not  blame  her  sister.  Mrs.  Blather  was  acting  conscien- 
tiously, according  to  the  faith  and  tradition  she  had 
inherited  from  her  Godfearing  ancestors.  Petty  and 
futile  as  many  of  the  formulas  were  by  which  she  had 
been  trained  to  regulate  human  conduct,  yet  there  were 
great  ones  which  could  not  do  otherwise  than  command 
respect.  "  Thou  shalt  not  sin,"  is  a  formula  the  obey- 
ing or  renouncing  of  which  is  often  a  secret  for  one  or 
two  human  hearts  alone.  Its  corollary,  "  Thou  shalt  not 
appear  to  be  sinning,"  is  one  which  must  be  dealt  with 
openly,  under  the  world's  eye.  Mrs.  Blather's  judgment 
was  based  on  this  latter  formula,  her  position  unassailable. 
She  had  no  Winifred  to  shake  with  the  eloquence  of  love 
her  faith  in  the  formula's  eternal  verity.  She  was  sup- 
ported by  the  firm  convictions  of  a  lifetime,  and  by  the 
unhesitating  assent  of  her  father  and  sister.  The  letter 
cut  off  all  Clytie's  hopes  of  ever  being  understood  by 
her  family.  She  herself  knew  their  inmost  hearts,  was 
conversant  with  every  principle  by  which  they  were 
guided,  and  she  could  bear  them  no  ill  will.  But  to 
them  she  knew  she  would  be  forever  inscrutable,  and  she 
accepted  their  judgments  with  sad  resignation. 

In  point  of  common  fact,  she  was  called  upon  to  make 
the  old,  old  choice  that  has  been  offered  to  woman  in  all 
ages,  between  her  family  and  the  man  she  loved.  With- 
out a  moment's  hesitation  she  chose  the  man,  and  severed 
herself  finally  from  her  kin.  Kent  had  become  the 
object  of  her  life.  She  had  loved  him — she  knew  that 
now — before  her  marriage.  She  had  wronged  him,  as  it 
seemed  to  her,  by  not  having  realised  it,  had  received 
notwithstanding  a  tender,  absolute  devotion  whose  brave 
selflessness  had  been  a  revelation  to  her.  No  sacrifice 
that  she  could  make  for  his  happiness  was  too  great  for 
her.  She  loved  him  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  full 
nature.  If  any  sacrifices  on  her  part  were  not  made,  it 
was  Kent  that  forbade  them.  The  less  he  would  accept 
the  more  did  she  find  in  her  heart  to  offer.  That  she 
should  remain  in  what  they  had  begun  to  look  upon  as 
their  common  home  seemed  to  be  a  vital  necessity  to 
his  happiness.  The  mild,  affectionate  approval  of  Grace 
and  Janet  could  not  compensate  the  great  loss  that  each 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  313 

would  sustain  in  a  rupture  of  their  intercourse.  Any 
appeal  to  her  sister  she  knew  would  be  useless.  She 
was  firm  in  the  path  in  which  she  had  elected  to  walk, 
and  Mrs.  Blather's  letter  remained  unanswered. 

But  Kent  could  not  take  this  comprehensive  view  of 
humanity.  That  Clytie  should  be  cast  off  by  her  family 
aroused  his  indignation. 

"  They  never  loved  you,"  he  said  one  day.  "  You 
were  always  a  thorn  in  their  flesh,  and  now  they  have 
seized  an  opportunity  of  plucking  you  out." 

"  You  are  wrong,  dear,"  replied  Clytie.  "  They  loved 
me  in  their  unemotional  fashion,  and  if  I  were  to  die 
they  would  shed  many  tears  and  wear  mourning  for  a 
whole  year.  But  don't  you  see  that  I  am  of  Samaria  ? 
I  cannot  pray  in  the  temple  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  houses 
of  Israel  are  closed  against  me.  It  is  of  their  religion 
to  do  so.  They  believe  that  the  '  bread  of  the  Samaritan 
is  as  the  flesh  of  swine.'  We  cannot  change  their  faith. 
We  can  only  seek  in  Samaria  for  freer  conditions  of 
life,  and  the  love  of  those  who  are  Samaritans  at 
heart." 

"  If  I  loved  you  less,  I  might  take  up  as  lofty  a  posi- 
tion as  you,"  said  Kent.  "  But  I  cannot  bear  that  even 
a  Pharisee  of  the  Pharisees  should  presume  to  judge 
you." 

"  They  have  been  judging  me  rightly  or  wrongly  all 
my  life,"  said  Clytie,  with  a  smile.  "  It  was  my  own 
challenge  ;  I  gave  it  vehemently  and  passionately  as  a 
girl  when  life  lay  before  me  like  a  closed  book  which 
they  refused  to  open  for  me.  Now  that  I  have  learned 
some  of  its  secrets  I  give  the  challenge  with  a  calm 
conviction  that  I  am  acting  in  accordance  with  laws 
higher  than  theirs.  So  do  not  fret  about  me,  dear." 
And  then  she  added  in  a  low  voice : 

"  You  know  I  would  give  up  all  I  could  have  in  the 
world  for  you,  if  you  would  accept  it." 

Then  Kent  put  his  arms  around  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  accept  far  too  much  in  my  selfishness,"  he  said. 
"  My  old  lonely  life  was  happy,  but  it  could  not  be  so 
again.  So  in  spite  of  all,  Clytie,  I  say,  Stay  with  me." 

"  I  should  stay  whatever  you  said,"  returned  Clytie. 
"  Don't  fancy  that  all  the  giving  is  on  my  side." 


314  AT  THE   GATE   GF  SAMARIA. 

One  sad  event  marked  the  mid-time  in  these  two 
years,  robbing  Clytie  of  an  external  interest  that  had 
grown  to  be  very  dear  to  her.  The  boy  Jack  died. 

The  first  meeting  with  him  after  the  terrible  scene  in 
her  husband's  house  was  in  the  studio,  whither  he  had 
betaken  himself  on  one  of  his  frequent  visits  to  Winifred. 
A  sensation  of  pain  caught  at  Clytie's  heart  as  she 
marked  the  lines  of  Thornton's  features  wrought  in 
miniature  on  the  boy's  face.  It  only  lasted  a  few 
moments,  and  then  it  melted  away  into  a  great  pity. 
Jack  was  Jack,  were  Thornton  twenty  times  his  father. 
That  he  was  so  parented  should  make  her  pity  for  him 
all  the  greater.  She  never  felt  more  drawn  towards  the 
boy  than  in  that  first  interview.  She  told  no  one  but 
Kent  of  the  secret  of  his  parentage,  not  even  Winifred, 
to  whom  Jack,  in  spite  of  full  intentions,  never  had  an 
opportunity  of  showing  the  photograph.  For  Mrs.  Bur- 
mester  having  discovered  that  Jack  had  temporarily 
abstracted  it,  had  cuffed  him  soundly  and  secreted  the 
coveted  treasure  in  a  secure  hiding-place. 

Whatever  hopes  Clytie  might  have  entertained  as  to 
Jack's  future  were  cut  short  by  the  change  in  her  cir- 
cumstances. All  she  could  do  was  to  contribute  towards 
his  training  in  the  sphere  in  which  the  high  gods,  assisted 
by  Kent  and  Treherne  had  placed  him.  Besides,  he  had 
manifested  no  particular  intellectual  bent.  His  gifts 
were  rather  those  of  action  ;  books  wearied  him,  except 
such  as  dealt  with  wild  exploit  and  adventure.  And  she 
shrank  now  from  the  idea  of  his  entering  the  army — a 
feminine  distaste,  easily  understandable.  So  she  had 
perforce  to  concur  in  the  scheme  whereby  he  should 
remain  another  year  at  the  school  and  then  be  appren- 
ticed to  a  respectable  trade.  Kent  comforted  her  with 
his  assurances.  If  the  boy  had  the  fire  of  success  in  him, 
he  would  rise  out  of  the  common  ranks.  Life  was  all 
before  him  with  its  endless  fortuities.  With  devoted 
friends  watching  and  guiding  him,  it  would  be  a  poor 
world  if  he  did  not  arrive  at  ultimate  good.  And  Clytie 
in  her  turn  comforted  the  boy,  trying  to  soften  and 
mould  his  nature  with  her  womanly  influence. 

It  was  his  last  term  at  the  school.  He  had  won  for 
himself  the  golden  opinions  of  the  authorities.  The 


AT,  THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  315 

semi-animal  little  arab  of  four  years  ago  had  developed 
into  a  bright,  self-reliant  lad  of  generous  impulses,  sub- 
ject, it  is  true,  to  fits  of  ungovernable  passion,  but  quick 
to  forgive,  repent,  and  do  penance.  Suddenly  Clytie 
received  a  telegram  that  Jack  was  very  ill.  She  left  her 
work  and  started  immediately  for  the  school.  There 
she  found  that  diphtheria  had  broken  out  among  the 
boys,  and  Jack's  was  the  most  critical  case.  Day  and 
night  she  nursed  him.  But  it  was  of  no  avail.  The 
boy  died,  and  Clytie  returned  to  London  with  a  cheerless 
sense  of  loss.  Mrs.  Burmester,  who  came  to  see  her 
after  the  funeral,  whimpered  a  little,  and  hoped  that 
Clytie  would  recommend  her  to  any  of  her  friends  who 
happened  to  be  in  need  of  a  charwoman.  And  then 
Clytie  looked  at  the  mother,  thought  of  the  father. 
After  all,  if  the  laws  of  heredity  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  controlling  of  human  destinies,  were  it  not  better  for 
Jack  to  be  dead  ?  When  the  woman  had  gone  she  went 
and  stood  before  the  replica  of  her  famous  picture 
which  she  had  painted  for  Kent,  and  shook  her  head 
sadly. 

"  What  I  have  painted  there,"  she  said  to  Kent,  "  the 
cruelty  and  animalism  that  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of 
his  face  latterly,  would  always  have  remained.  Human 
nature  is  a  palimpsest,  dear.  What  is  written  is  written 
forever,  though  it  seem  obliterated,  and  may  be  called 
up  to  the  surface  at  any  moment.  I  call  Jack  happy, 
being  dead." 

With  the  exception  of  this  episode  the  weeks  and 
months  passed  in  peaceful  uneventfulness.  Clytie  worked 
assiduously  at  her  art.  At  first  the  studio  seemed  lonely 
and  dispiriting  without  Winifred.  But  other  influences 
compensated  her  loss.  As  soon  as  it  became  known 
that  she  had  resumed  her  profession,  orders  came  in 
plentifully  and  kept  her  busy.  And  then  perhaps  Wini- 
fred's absence  brought  her  nearer  to  Kent.  If  she 
worked  hard  all  day  and  failed  to  reach  her  artistic  ideal, 
it  was  deep  comfort  to  know  that  Kent's  whole-hearted 
encouragement  would  soon  come  and  cheer  her  and 
save  her  from  depression.  They  had  learned  to  depend 
much  upon  each  other  in  their  work.  In  every  mood 
they  were  constant  companions,  never  weary  of  each 


316  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMAKIA. 

other.  Instead  of  walking  home  from  the  Museum,  as 
he  had  done  for  years,  Kent  would  hurry  back  by  train 
from  Charing  Cross  to  Sloane  Square,  so  as  to  shorten 
her  loneliness  by  half  an  hour.  A  cup  of  tea,  a  talk 
over  the  day's  work,  perhaps  a  stroll  along  the  Embank- 
ment, dinner,  and  then  the  long  quiet  evening  as  in 
the  old  days — such  was  the  ordinary  routine.  Certain 
changes  had  naturally  occurred  in  Kent's  habits — changes 
for  his  distinct  good,  as  Clytie  used  to  declare  laughingly. 
He  rarely  used  the  attic  sitting-room.  His  scratch 
Bohemian  meals  were  things  of  the  past.  What  law  of 
God  or  man  forbade  them  to  eat  together?  Clytie 
asked  once  in  the  early  days  when  they  were  talking  of 
household  trifles.  And  then  Kent  bluntly  insisted  upon 
an  arrangement  whereby  they  divided  equally  the  rent 
of  the  rooms  they  inhabited.  It  was  not  fair,  he  main- 
tained, that  he  should  give  her  sitting-room  all  that  wear 
and  tear  without  helping  to  pay  for  it.  Clytie  yielded, 
not  unpleasurably,  seeing  that  he  was  bent  upon  it,  but 
she  reserved  the  studio  as  her  own  especial  sanctum. 

The  charm  of  the  life  grew  daily  upon  Kent,  with  its 
infinite  grace  of  little  things.  He  told  her  this  often, 
with  awkward  sincerity,  as  a  man  can  only  tell  the  woman 
he  loves  deeply.  And  Clytie  would  laugh  contentedly 
and  say  : 

"  But  you'll  soon  get  tired  of  these  organised  meals 
and  long  for  your  freedom  again.  Don't  you  ever  crave 
to  be  swallowing  your  coffee  as  you  brush  your  hair  in 
the  mornings  ?  And  doesn't  it  chafe  you  all  the  after- 
noon at  the  Museum  to  think  that  there  is  a  regular 
dinner  awaiting  you  when  you  get  back  ? " 

"  No  ;  somehow  I  like  it,"  he  would  reply,  laughing. 
"I  believe  I  am  developing  into  respectability." 

Combining  their  resources  they  were  able  to  entertain 
in  a  modest  way  those  of  their  friends  who  perfectly 
understood  their  relations — the  Farquharsons,  the  Tre- 
hernes,  Wither.  On  these  occasions  Mrs.  Gurkins's  hus- 
band, a  lean,  self-effacive  man,  would  wait  at  table  in  the 
severest  of  black  and  lend  immense  dignity  to  the  meal. 
Wither  was  a  constant  visitor.  The  "  monastery  "  was 
broken  up ;  Fairfax  had  taken  a  practice  in  a  large  coun- 
try town,  Green  had  taken  a  wife.  Wither  complained 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA.  31? 

bitterly,  railing  at  them  both  for  their  disgusting  selfish- 
ness. Clytie  learned  to  love  the  bright-eyed,  gnomelike 
little  being,  his  cynical,  paradoxical  talk,  his  large-hearted- 
ness  which  he  was  ever  anxious  to  conceal  from  the 
world.  Often  when  life  seemed  to  weigh  a  little  heavy, 
the  future  to  loom  somewhat  sad,  and  Kent  and  Clytie 
had  been  sitting  alone,  a  spell  of  wistful  silence  over 
them,  Wither  would  come  in  unexpectedly,  and,  with  his 
.subtle  feminine  perception  piercing  to  the  heart  of  their 
mood,  would  exert  himself  to  extra  brilliancy  and  dissi- 
pate their  cloud  in  laughter.  A  man  by  no  means  re- 
quires delicate  tact  to  win  a  woman's  love,  but  no  man 
who  displays  it  towards  a  woman  can  fail  of  winning  a 
little  of  the  overflow  of  her  heart.  Clytie  was  grateful 
to  Wither.  Once,  when  bidding  him  good-night, — Kent 
had  gone  into  the  passage, — she  added  impulsively,  "  and 
thank  you." 

He  looked  at  her  in  his  odd  way,  with  a  smile  playing 
around  his  lips. 

"  What  for  ?  For  being  miserable  and  lonely  and  mak- 
ing use  of  you  to  cure  myself?  " 

But  they  understood  one  another,  and  he  was  touched 
by  Clyde's  little  tribute.  And  Clytie  had  spoken  out  of 
her  heart. 

For,  in  spite  of  the  helpfulness  and  comfort  of  their 
life  together,  there  were  gaps  in  its  plenitude  which,  as 
she  had  said  to  Winifred,  ached  a  little  at  times.  Kent 
was  tenderness,  manly  sympathy  itself  :  he  would  have 
cut  his  tongue  out  rather  than  formulate  a  longing  that 
could  not  be  satisfied.  But  moments  came  when  the 
irony  of  life  seemed  somewhat  bitterly  mocking,  and 
caused  a  veil  of  sadness  to  be  drawn  between  them. 
And  like  people  who  love  deeply  each  was  sensitive  to 
the  variations  in  the  other's  mood.  Then  Clytie  would 
yearn  for  the  impossible  :  to  fix  forever  the  light  she 
loved  to  see  in  his  eyes,  to  cling  to  his  arm  and  be 
acknowledged  his  wife  before  all  the  world.  Thus 
through  the  midst  of  their  happy,  earnest  life  ran  a  vein 
of  sorrow. 

But  the  years  that  had  passed,  with  their  manifold 
emotions,  experiences,  and  disillusions,  with  their  awaken- 
ings of  passion,  with  their  plentiful  gift  of  tears,  with 

21 


AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

their  later  gift  of  an  almost  holy  communion  of  souls, 
had  completed  the  woman  and  the  artist.  One  hunger 
remained  to  her — one  that  had  had  no  place  in  her 
girlish  cravings — a  woman's  hunger  that  is  as  a  thing 
sacred,  and  wondrously  softens  her  nature.  An  infinite 
compassion  took  within  her  the  place  of  scorn.  Her 
eyes  had  learned  the  trick  of  tenderness  which  illumi- 
nated her  bright,  fearless  face.  Her  judgments  became 
less  harsh,  gained  in  breadth  what  they  lost  in  brilliance. 
She  "  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it  whole."  Many  of  its 
mysteries  had  been  revealed  to  her,  and  she  had  learned 
the  road  to  the  heart  of  others.  The  great  lesson  that 
Kent  in  the  years  before  had  suggested  to  her  she 
grasped  in  its  entirety,  and  it  revolutionised  her  artistic 
career.  No  longer  was  her  art  a  stepping-stone,  a  magic- 
lantern  sheet  on  which  to  project  life  in  order  to  realise 
its  meaning.  It  was  no  longer  the  objective  form  of  a 
vague  craving,  but  the  idealised  record  of  an  experience. 
When  she  painted  the  wistful,  old-world  look  in  a  waif's 
eyes  it  was  no  longer  with  the  impatient,  fretful  hope 
that  its  significance  would  be  taught  her  from  her  own 
canvas  ;  her  awakened  sight  gazed  with  the  sorrow  of 
knowledge  into  the  young  soul,  and  she  used  her  art  to 
bear  witness  to  the  world  of  what  was  there.  In  a  dim 
way  she  was  conscious  of  this  change  of  attitude — seek- 
ing within  herself  for  the  reason  of  the  deeper,  intenser, 
calmer  feeling  with  which  she  approached  her  work. 
There  came,  too,  a  sense  of  responsibility,  the  necessity  of 
perfecting  whatever  she  painted  in  its  presentation  of 
truth.  As  her  genius  expanded  the  inner  interpretation 
of  the  formula,  "  Art  for  art's  sake,"  dawned  upon  her  in 
the  realisation  of  the  "  sorrowful  great  gift  "  whereby 
the  artist  has  the  privilege  of  piercing  through  the  media 
of  sense  and  intellect  and  touching  the  naked  soul  of 
man. 

She  went,  as  of  old,  into  the  streets  for  her  models, 
choosing  the  side  of  life  least  understanded  of  Philistia, 
sublimating  that  which  was  spiritual,  eternal  in  abject 
and  outcast,  beggar  and  courtesan.  Strange  were  the 
walks  of  Kent  and  herself  about  the  great  city,  by  day 
and  by  night,  and  strange  the  spars  and  fragments  of 
humanity  they  picked  up  in  these  rambles,  who  found 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  319 

their  way  afterwards  to  Clytie's  studio.  They  went 
together  to  East  End  music  halls,  bank  holiday  gather- 
ings, thieves'  kitchens,  night  clubs  in  the  West  End, 
where  ladies  are  admitted  free  on  a  member's  introduc- 
tion, Kent  paying  his  subscription  almost  at  the  door. 
It  was  towards  women  that  Clytie's  sympathy  flowed  the 
strongest.  Her  first  contact  with  one  of  ces  autres  in 
the  hotel  at  Dinan  had  set  a  chord  vibrating  within  her 
that  now  rang  out  full  and  true.  She  could  paint  these 
women,  young,  withered,  children  on  the  lurid  threshold, 
old  women  with  charred  and  blackened  past.  It  is  the 
moralist's  part  to  condemn,  evolve  the  moral ;  the  artist 
on  the  higher  plane  disintegrates  the  spiritual  from  the 
animal  and  presents  it  in  the  form  of  Truth.  From  the 
comedy  of  misery,  the  tragedy  of  sex,  the  never  ending 
drama  of  vice  and  crime,  the  one  draws  groans,  the 
other  tears.  Each  has  his  place  in  the  cosmos.  Thus 
Clytie,  artist  and  woman,  walked  through  the  abomina- 
tion of  desolation  and  opened  the  eyes  of  the  world  to 
the  glimmering  spiritual  rays  that  shot  across  it. 

Once  more  she  took  out  the  studies  she  had  made  for 
the  "  Faustina  "  picture.  This  time  she  could  look  on 
them  without  a  shudder,  only  sadly.  The  picture  would 
never  be  painted.  She  was  no  longer  in  feverish,  passion- 
ate search  after  mysteries  that  had  baffled  her.  The  pic- 
ture now  had  no  artistic  reason  for  existence.  It  would  be 
a  cruel,  despairing  work,  a  tragedy  of  cynicism.  Know- 
ledge of  the  world  had  given  her  knowledge  of  self  ;  she 
knew  now  how  blent  were  the  foreshadowings  of  passion 
in  her  own  soul  with  those  that  she  had  hungered  to  ex- 
press on  the  young  face  of  Faustina.  In  those  days  she 
could  have  found  a  model  in  her  own  mirror,  and  then 
the  personal  note  dominating  the  picture  would  have 
saved  it  from  heartlessness.  For  the  complete  woman 
to  paint  it  would  be  the  presentation  of  the  damnation 
of  a  young  soul.  But  the  contemplation  of  her  earlier 
work  suggested  vividly  the  converse  of  the  subject — a 
Faustina  swept  away  by  the  whirl  of  passion  with  the 
after-light  of  innocence  in  her  soul's  depths.  The  con- 
ception grew  within  her,  took  form,  awoke  the  full  artist 
in  the  ripe  woman.  With  a  throbbing  sense  of  mastery, 
a  quivering  thrill  of  inspiration,  new  to  her  as  the  first 


320  AT  THE  GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

love  kiss  on  a  young  girl's  lips,  she  betook  herself  to 
her  task. 

It  was  the  5th  of  August,  two  years  after  Clytie  had 
resumed  her  artistic  life  with  Kent.  The  afternoon  was 
hot  and  oppressive.  Clytie  was  tired  and  lay  back  on 
the  couch  by  the  window,  for  she  had  worked  unceas- 
ingly all  through  the  summer  and  the  strain  was  begin- 
ning to  tell  on  her. 

They  had  just  returned  from  the  West  End  Gallery, 
where  Clytie's  picture  had  been  exhibited  during  the 
season.  This  was  the  closing  day,  and  they  had  gone 
to  see  the  picture  for  the  last  time.  A  wealthy  Ameri- 
can had  purchased  it  for  the  art  museum  of  his  native 
city,  and  to-morrow  it  would  be  packed  up  and  sent 
over  seas. 

"  It's  like  parting  forever  from  the  child  that  is  dearest 
to  you,"  she  said  with  a  little  touch  of  melancholy. 
"  That  is  the  worst  of  painting.  A  poet  or  a  musician 
— even  an  etcher  can  keep  his  work  by  him,  but  a 
painter  loses  all.  Doesn't  it  seem  hard  ?  " 

Kent  acquiesced,  comforted  her,  spoke  with  vague 
cheeriness  of  the  law  of  sacrifice  which  we  must  all  obey. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  must  think  of  all  that  the  picture 
had  brought  her,  the  public  fame,  the  homage  of  those 
whose  opinion  was  dear  to  her. 

"  Yes  ;  in  all  that  I  have  succeeded  beyond  my 
wildest  hopes,"  said  Clytie.  "  But  what  is  it?  At  the 
Redgraves'  the  other  afternoon  crowds  of  people  stared 
at  me,  whispered  each  other  requests  to  be  introduced 
to  Clytie  Davenant.  The  men  praised  all  the  wrong 
points  in  my  picture,  and  the  women  tried  to  get  at  the 
way  I  did  my  hair.  I  know  it's  flattering  to  one's 
vanity,  dear,  and  I  like  it.  I  honestly  like  it.  But  it  is  a 
superficial  little  gratification.  Now  it  is  all  over  I  begin 
to  think  of  what  that  picture  has  cost,  what  has  gone 
to  the  making  of  it.  Neither  money  nor  fame  can  pay 
me  back." 

"  It  has  cost  you  hours  of  work  in  which  you  have 
found  happiness,"  said  Kent.  "  You  must  not  overlook 
that." 

"  Oh,  Kent !  "  cried  Clytie,  not  seeing  for  the  moment 
that  he  had  deliberately  avoided  the  deeper  elements  in 


AT  THE  GATE  OF  SAMARIA.  321 

her  thought.  "  Don't  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  You 
who  have  been  just  now  preaching  to  me  the  law  of 
sacrifice  !  Don't  you  know  that  to  be  the  woman  to 
paint  that  picture  there  were  sacrificed  the  traditions  and 
formulas  of  my  home — there  were  sacrificed  the  first  pure 
flush  of  a  girl's  love,  the  illusions  of  a  wife,  the  joy  of 
motherhood,  the  dignity  of  a  proud  woman  ?  " 

She  raised  herself  impulsively  on  her  elbow  and  con- 
tinued with  flashing  eyes : 

"  Don't  you  see  that  ?  And  you  of  all  men  who  have 
shared  with  such  bitterness  in  the  sacrifice  !  Yes,  you, 
my  clearest,  my  best,  my  love  !  Your  life  has  been 
sacrificed,  your  love,  your  devotion,  your  nobleness. 
For  once  in  the  world  the  man  has  paid,  and  not  the 
woman.  For  two  long  years  we  have  lived  together, 
eating  at  the  same  table,  living  a  common  life,  which,  had 
one  great  fact  been  non-existent  would  have  crowned 
our  days  with  happiness.  I  am  of  Samaria — I  don't 
care.  I  have  offered  to  you  to  defy  the  world,  to  live 
openly  together,  to  bear  your  name.  You  have  said 
'  No/  for  my  sake  sacrificing  yourself.  Can  this  life 
last  forever  ?  Have  not  the  past  two  years  been  filled 
with  longings,  restraints,  bitternesses,  regrets,  all  silently 
working — you  too  loyal  to  utter  them,  I  dreading  lest 
the  utterance  of  them  on  my  part  should  render  you 
unhappier  ? " 

"  I  have  been  happy,"  said  Kent.  "  A  thousandth 
part  of  what  you  have  given  me  would  have  made  me 
more  than  happy." 

"  But  your  due  is  a  thousand  times  more  !  "  cried  Clytie. 
"  I  have  given  you  little  enough,  but  I  have  drawn  from 
you  the  breath  by  which  I  live,  the  strength,  the  passion, 
the  will  by  which  I  have  reached  my  poor  success.  It 
can't  be  so  any  longer  ;  it  would  be  unjust,  cruel !  " 

"  Stop,  my  darling ! "  exclaimed  Kent,  greatly  agitated. 
"  I  am  a  man,  and  you  are  saying  things  a  man  cannot 
bear  from  the  woman  he  loves.  Let  us  finish  this  before 
it  is  too  late,  and  I  lose  mastery  over  myself.  I  have 
thought  over  it  all — with  the  fiercest  hunger  in  my  heart — 
even  in  moments  of  our  love  that  have  been  worth  a 
century  of  misery.  I  have  thought  over  it  all  ways. 
What  was  impossible  two  years  ago  is  impossible  now. 


322  AT   THE   GATE   OF  SAMARIA. 

I  will  not  wreck  your  life  by  condemning  you  to  scorn 
and  ostracism  and  the  loss  of  all  that  the  outside  world 
can  give  you." 

Clytie  did  not  reply,  but  turned  her  face  towards  the 
open  window,  looking  with  knitted  brow  into  the  patch 
of  blue  heaven  that  was  just  visible  over  the  tops  of  the 
opposite  houses.  A  great,  great  longing  possessed  her, 
an  infinite  tenderness  towards  the  man  who  could  speak 
and  act  so  selflessly.  She  longed  to  be  able  to  say  three 
little  words,  summing  up  the  yearning  of  her  heart  :  "  For 
my  sake."  But  they  seemed  unutterable  at  that  hour. 
Perhaps  at  another  time,  in  a  moment  of  less  vehement 
tone,  when  he  was  unawares,  the  words  could  be  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  She  sank  deep  into  the  thought — 
utter  woman. 

A  long,  long  silence,  which  Kent,  uncomprehensive, 
like  a  man,  did  not  dare  to  break.  A  thought  had  seized 
him  too,  a  troubling  doubt.  Would  he  always  be  as 
strong  ? 

At  last  he  drew  mechanically  out  of  his  pocket  an 
evening  paper  that  he  had  bought  on  the  way  home, 
and  as  mechanically  opened  it  and  began  to  skim  the 
contents. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  loud  cry  : 

"  Clytie  !  " 

She  sprang  up,  startled,  and  saw  him  standing  with 
white  cheeks  and  shaking  hand,  holding  out  the  paper. 

"  Read— he— he— read  !  " 

Clytie  took  the  paper  from  him,  and  her  eyes  instinc- 
tively fell  upon  the  paragraph  : 

A  telegram  from  Loango  announces  the  death  of  Mr.  Thornton 
Hammerdyke,  the  well-known  explorer,  in  a  skirmish  with  some 
Arab  slave-traders.  Later  particulars  will  be  given  in  our  next 
edition. 

The  newspaper  fell  from  her  hand,  and  they  remained 
for  some  moments  facing  each  other,  trembling.  Then 
she  lowered  her  eyes  and  went  to  him  humbly. 


THE    END. 


University  of  California 
SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
"""-  --*•  90024-1388 


